


Feverish {Ryden}

by ladypseudonym



Series: The Odyssey Series [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-10-04 01:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 30,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17295431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypseudonym/pseuds/ladypseudonym
Summary: Feverish, the first installment in The Odyssey Series, follows the new, fresh-out-of-highschool band Panic! At The Disco on their quest for fame. Though they thought they had their lives under control, as their tour progresses Lead Guitarist Ryan Ross and Frontman Brendon Urie discover something different - something nobody else can know about.





	1. Vexation

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lovelies! I'm new to AO3, and I kinda have no idea how this website works so spare me please. (tbh I don't even know if my writing is good) but I hope you all enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this on March 30th of 2019, just in case it seems different!  
> Thank you all for all of your support <3

He was on his deathbed.

With every exhalation a little bit of hope vanishes, and with every inhale the horrible toxins that are the forced normality of life penetrate his bones.

 _Goddamn,_  he thought.  _I should be famous by now._

To him, his happiness is a joke, something that is fueled only by weed and the yearning for drugs he cannot afford. All he can think is: we should have  _made it_  by now.

What the fuck?

"Ryan."

The boy tries even harder to melt into the floorboards, ignoring the common-sense voice trying to bore into his brain.

"Ryan."

He bangs his head onto the floorboards of Spencer's grandmother's house an extra time for emphasis, before flipping over onto his back.

"Stop fucking moping and get up. We're not going to go anywhere with that attitude."

"We can't do fucking anything because he's not here. Again." Ryan pointed out, to which Spencer pointedly gave him a look.

"He's not here because of church, Ryan. It can't be helped."

"What kind of member of a fucking rock band skips practice for church?" Brent said, getting up from the chair from the back of the room.

"You know what, Ry? Move over."

"Don't call me that." Nevertheless, Ryan shifted so that Brent could collapse on the floor next to him.

He shifted his head a minuscule amount, making way for Spencer to dwell in the corner of his eye, arms crossed, looking at them with the most exasperated expression on his face.

"He doesn't have a choice, you know." Ryan raised his arm lazily, swinging it around dangerously before flipping off some imaginary Mormon in some imaginary church, keeping  _their_ Brendon from  _their_ band practice, ignorant to the sound of the door opening.

"Wow, real mature."

"Bren!" Ryan hopped up with the renewed energy of a small puppy, who had just slept for four hours only to be awaken with the sudden urge to love everybody and everything at once. Especially the new person standing in the doorway.

"Talking about me, Ry?"

Brent looked at him with slight indignation at the injustice that was Brendon being allotted the two letters off of Ryan's name.

"No." Ryan said at the same time that Brent and Spencer said "Yes." He shot them an angry look, which just made Brendon laugh and whip the older boy with his coat.

"Why did you bring a fucking coat?"

"So they know I'm out, of course." 

"You snuck away from _home?_ With your fucking protective mother?"

"When we got home I just locked the door to my room and went out the window. I brought my coat incase they freaked out when they try to check on me and I'm not there."

"Bren, that's a bit overboa-"

"I could be kidnapped right now, Jackass." His face broke into a grin.  _This kid loved his family more than anything,_  Ryan thought.  _It would break him if they left him._

"You really need to leave that goddamn church, Bren." Brent said, rolling his eyes.

"Don't call me that." Brendon flashed him a warning glare. Brent was about to mumble into the ground about why  _Spencer_  got a nickname and  _Ryan_  got a nickname and  _Brendon_  got a nickname but he wasn't allowed to use any of them when Brendon cut him off with a nervous laugh.

"God, it's like you guys think I'm part of a cult or something."

The three exchanged glances.

"I'm not a part of a cult."

 _Bren,_ Ryan thought to himself.  _That's_ _what people who are a part of a cult say._

" _Fuck_ , you guys, come on, let's just practice." Brendon said, clearly unnerved and pissed off, as he picked up a guitar.

It had been three weeks since Ryan was sick.

Three weeks since he had filled in, sang for the first time.

_'Why didn't you tell us you could sing?' He had said, voice broken and crackly from his cold, but awed nonetheless._

_'Well,' Brendon continued, blushing a little. His eyes met Ryan's in a bashful look. 'I didn't really know myself'._

He filled in permanently after that.  
Ryan had no problem with that. He hated his voice. He thought it sucked, it was shit, his words were great but his voice was trash compared, and all that.

He only thought his voice was good alone, in private, singing along to records left behind from the unknown.

"Guys, let's go. I ditched for this. Camisado. Come on." Brent and Ryan barely moved, causing an exaggerated eyeroll from the vocalist in the corner.

"Jesus  _Fuck_."

Ryan liked it when Brendon swore. He did it a lot. It didn't change the fact that Ryan liked it, he liked when Brendon did every non-Mormon thing possible, because, Jesus. They all knew he was going to have to leave at some point.

Ryan didn't know really what he had against Mormons. Brendon was one, of course, so he couldn't hate them that much.

But still, he hated Mormons as much as he hated Catholics, and he hated Catholics almost as much as he hated himself.

(This was the lie he told himself frequently, that he hated Catholicism. But, in reality, he only hated the confines it put him to.)

Brendon marched over to Ryan, his scrawny arms placed on his hips, and thrust out his hand. He wrapped it around Ryan's wrist, pulling him up.

 _That boy's hands fit around my wrists as naturally as my hands around the neck of a guitar_. Ryan thought, sending a quick glance to his brown eyes. _I was lucky he was my best friend_.

After hearing Brent moan and groan about having to move in the corner, Ryan pulled him up too. Brent was sizable, a perfectly normal build unlike his skinny and scrawny frame. Because of this, Ryan had to throw his whole back into it, which made Spencer cackle with glee in the corner.

"Bitch."

"You love me!" Spencer called back, sliding around his snare and molding into the seat of his drum kit. "Now pick up your fucking guitar, and do something!"

Ryan shot him a smile.

To be honest, he didn't know what he was on about, because Brent was proving much harder to get moving than Ryan was. He fumbled with his aux cord, placing them in the wrong, then right, then wrong again ports as Brendon rolled his eyes yet again.

Brendon looked concerned, troubled. With a quick glance, Ryan leaned over, brushing his palm against the younger boy's arm slightly.

"Sorry."

"'Bout what?"

Ryan shrugged, but he couldn't help but notice how Brendon's smile flickered at the absence of his hand. They'd do this all the time, little touches, on the arm or thigh. Reassurances. Ryan found that people understand each other better when they are touching.

And that's what friends are supposed to do.

Understand each other.


	2. On Alchohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feverish, the first installment in The Odyssey Series, follows the new, fresh-out-of-highschool band Panic! At The Disco on their quest for fame. Though they thought they had their lives under control, as their tour progresses Lead Guitarist Ryan Ross and Frontman Brendon Urie discover something different - something nobody else can know about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all, this chapter is upped by at least a thousand words (praise me lol) but it may very well be shit so just go with it.

"I'm back!" He called, throwing his coat onto the floor of the entryway.

Ryan paused to listen to his own voice echoing through the desolate house.

His home was a graveyard for broken wishes. A failed marriage, hopes, dreams, careers, a steady income.

Love.

Ryan could safely operate under the assumption that George had passed out somewhere. 

He didn't call him dad anymore.

The title of his father was a privilege he lost when Ryan turned eleven. See, some people aren't cut out to be parents. Eleven-Year-Old-Ryan made that decision for him. 

As he walked into the guest bedroom, (which he would have to be kidding himself to be calling it his own), he heard shuffling coming from a back room.

Ryan locked the door shortly after that.

The room that he stayed in was a beautiful metaphor. It had large, flowered curtains with a certain femininity to them, the one thing that the house lacked. He was pretty sure that his bedroom curtains were the closest thing to a feminine touch the house had left.

There was a tall double bed, that slanted down so far that you'd fall off, which is why he had used several of George's books to prop one side up.

If you sat down on it too hard, they'd shift and go flying.

The bed was adorned with sheets that used to be white, but had since been discolored with all of the uses from the people that 'were just Ryan, his father swore' that slept in the bed. When he was younger, the idea that his own "father" had people who weren't him sleeping in his bed when he was out freaked him out. Like all of the insults he launched, he got used to the sorry fact.

The mirror was stained with broken glass and lies, and, if you leaned too close, you could smell the whiskey that shattered it the first time.

And the second.

And the third.

The only thing worth noting in the room was the shiny door latch that lived on the doorframe, something that Ryan had, at age 14, deemed necessary and acquired and installed himself. 

All of the posters on the walls could be taken off at a moments notice, some keeled over from their top-heavy weight already, clinging to the wall like faded wallpaper from owner's before.

He had an amp in the corner that ran on batteries, sitting next to his first guitar. He looked down at his second, and threw it on the bed. The case bounced up a little before coming to a rest.

Ryan yawned.

This was not a tired yawn, it was a yawn-for-the-sake-of-it-yawn, a filter-out-your-feelings-yawn.

A you-aren't-allowed-to-cry-so-do-anything-other-than yawn.

Since Ryan started University, he never came back to visit, only these occasional ones to make sure George wasn't dead in an alley somewhere.

"George?" The gruff voice penetrated the door, calling out the name that didn't belong to the boy on the other side.

The voice sounded on the other side of the wall.

"It's Ryan. Not George"

There was a pause.

"Just making sure I wasn't broken in on. How long are you staying?" He sounded sober. A rare occurrence.

Ryan knew not to trust the sober voice anymore either.

Ryan stared at his reflection in the mirror. There, wrapped in cracks, was his body slumped on the bed. His hair, a bit too long to be considered tasteful, splayed out underneath him. His legs lay awkwardly over his guitar case, his pants too tight for comfort and his shirt too loose for him to straighten.

He could melt into the bed right then and there, but then he remembered where he was.

You only melt when you are safe.

The stench of whiskey was overwhelming. 

"I'm just leaving."

One week ago, Ryan thought it a wonderful idea to leave some of his things in his childhood bedroom, make some more space in his room at college. Then, he remembered that he couldn't trust them there.

The only things he left behind was his former guitar, a few posters, and the simple polaroid on the windowsill. Ryan pushed himself off of the bed, springing to his feet to pick it up.

There, in the photo, stood Spencer. He was standing behind Ryan and Brendon, one of his hands on Brendon's shoulder, the other gripping Ryan's. To his left stood Brent, a half step away from the rest of them, and standing barely in front of the two was Ryan, his right arm lazily wrapped around Brendon's waist. Brendon had a friendly arm around Ryan's shoulder, his fingertips touching the flesh between his elbow and the hem of his sleeve. 

Ryan flipped the photo over, looking for a date. There wasn't one.

The more Ryan looked at the photo, the more something seemed off about it.

Was it the way that Ryan's hand casually gripped Brendon's hipbone, holding him steadily in place? Or the way that Brendon wasn't squeezing his arm, but  _touching it?_ Just so, just barely,  _feeling him?_

Or was it the way that Brent stood secluded from the rest of them?

Ryan decided that it was the latter, as there was no reason why two friends touching each other would be weird. After all, there was no problems with the brotherly way Spencer gripped their shoulders, was there?

Ryan stared at the boys in the photograph, noticing the light in their eyes. The  _we-can-do-it_ stare, the  _we're-the-best-and-you-ain't-shit_ look.

He quickly realized that, in most of them, that had since gone.

No sooner had he realized this that his phone buzzed, and, as he pulled it out, he glanced around the room as if he had something to hide.

As if his childhood was a monster that, if he showed too much weakness, would devour him.

_[Brendon: I'm bored]_

Ryan simply rolled his eyes, putting it back in his back pocket, when he received another text.

_[Spence: In general, or w/ the band]_

_[Brent: wdym?]_

Ryan sighs, sending the boys in the photograph a quick glance.

_[Ryan: u know what he means]_

There was a pause.

They knew what Spencer meant.

_[Spence: u guys should come over]_

_[Ryan: we just left?]_

_[Spence: that hasn't stopped you before]_

Ryan would have smiled, if he didn't believe he was too old for sleepovers. Because he  _was._ But then, there was the slight fact that, though he was a college student now (a big kid!) nights with Spencer were nostalgic. 

Both Brendon and Brent texted at the same time.

_[Brendon: booze?]_

_[Brent: plz don't tell me i have to bring my bass]_

Ryan chose not to respond to Brent's remark, instead, chuckling to himself as he keyed in-

_[Ryan: wow, Bren, that's not very mormon of you.]_

_[Brendon: fuck off]_

There was a silent pause that shifted over his room.

_[Brendon: you know what they say]_

_[Ryan: you quote my livejournal at me i slit your throat]_

_[Spence: wow, violent much?]_

Ryan turned, the slaughtering of his childhood bedroom forgotten, as he picked his guitar up off the bed and his coat off the floor, letting the door swing shut behind him without a goodbye.

-!-

-!-

-!-

"Come on, Ry, take a drink."

"I don't drink." Ryan said stubbornly, pushing Brent's hand away from his face. They lay on the floor of Spencer's room, Brendon leaning up against Ryan's side, Ryan propped up against the wall, Spencer lying at their feet.

Brent scoffed.

"Lay off." Spencer stated firmly, mediating from his place on the floor.

Brendon, who was engaged in an incredibly intimate relationship with the beer he was holding, slid off Ryan's side and onto the floor, propping his head against his thigh. 

A good way of telling how drunk the respective members of Panic! At The Disco were was easily tracked by where Brendon Urie was sitting. It was easy - if he was entangled in Ryan Ross by the end of the night, his arms wound around him, giggling, best bet was that he was drunk. This was the weird thing, about Ryan Ross. Though he had a childhood ridden with the poison that was alcohol, seeing his bandmates drunk was like therapy for him. Partially, it must've been because when his dad was drunk things got screamed, and thrown, and broken. Not just mirrors, but skin. And hearts.

When the respective members of Panic! At The Disco got drunk together, it was quite different. Brent would get incredibly shitfaced, drunk until he passed out. He'd laugh the whole way until it happened. Spencer would get tipsy, on the thin line between drunk and tipsy. He'd chuckle to himself and giggle to Ryan about childhood memories. Brendon would get drunk, but not as drunk as Brent. Ryan was the moderator for that- getting him drunk enough to enjoy it but keep him sober enough for the Mormons to not notice in the morning. When Brendon was drunk, he would act less like Ryan's best friend and more like his girlfriend, draping himself around the older boy, playing with his hair, tracing his collarbones, touching his face, dramatically standing on the bed and,  _'have I ever told you guys how much I love you'_ s and  _'Ryan, Ryan do my makeup please? Pleeeeeease?"._ Ryan, however, stuck to his guns. He stayed stone-cold sober, only "going against his morals" to fake a sip of beer when Brendon got too touchy-feely. But it didn't matter. It never occurred to anyone that Ryan was sober throughout all of this. Despite all of this- there was one thing that they didn't get when drunk. Existential.

"Does it every feel like we aren't going anywhere to you?"

To be honest, it was unclear who said it. It may have been Brent, or Spencer, or Ryan, or even Brendon. Or they all could've thought it at the same time, and psychologically transmitted the question to each other.

"Well." Ryan was the first to respond, slowly but surely, moving his fingers from an about-to-be-tipsy Brendon's hair. "What are we going to do about it?"

Brent shrugged, taking another swig from his beer.

Silence.

"We have to do something." 

"Yeah, Ry, real helpful." Brendon said, sarcasm in his voice.

"I'll tell you what we'll do." Ryan said, standing up so quickly that Brendon's head slipped off of his thigh and almost banged on the floor. He let out a light noise of protest.

Ryan slid over to Spencer's computer, keying in the information for his Livejournal. 

"What's our purevolume again?"

"It's bookmarked." Spencer said, cautiously moving towards the chair Ryan had sat himself in.

"Ryan, Jesus, you can't say that." Brendon, too, had moved to stand behind Ryan, peering at the screen with Spencer.

_hey, I'm Ryan. our band's music is better than yours, here's our purevolume, have a listen._

Brent let out a laugh.

"That's Pete Wentz! That won't do a damn thing. Also, don't say that." Brent said, deciding to let a little common sense seep through into the statement. 

"Well, since all of you dicks are unhelpful, and we have to do something, I'm doing it." 

"But-"

Ryan silenced them all by lowering his finger onto the keyboard and pressing  ** _POST._**

They stood there in silence, staring at Ryan incredulously as he signed out and got up from the chair.

"What?"

Spencer made some sort of incomprehensible gesture in Ryan's general direction, to which Ryan laughed.

"I wasn't wrong. Now, if you losers are about to get shitfaced, might as well do it on a weekend."

Now, this was when, for one of the last times in Ryan Ross's life, he would be thankful for Brent Wilson.

Because  _he laughed._

He threw his head back and laughed before re-claiming his spot on the ground, chugging another beer.

"Goddamn, Ryan, sometimes I think you're the only one in this band with balls."

This statement was enough to re-awaken Spencer and Brendon, who decided that whatever battle they were fighting had been lost, and awkwardly shuffled back to their respective places, Spencer flopping on the bed and Brendon trying to reassume his position in Ryan's lap. _To be honest_ , Ryan found himself thinking,  _I may actually be the only one with balls enough to do shit._

Spencer, however, seemed to be unsettled enough, (probably thinking the most rational thoughts about the situation) had to be consoled by  _Brent,_ of all people.

"Don't worry, Spencey," said Brent, chuckling slightly. "It's not like he'll  _see it."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found out while researching for this that Ryan used to not drink, and that seemed to be a bit too valuable of information to not put in. :)
> 
> also, on an unrelated note, are you guys enjoying this?
> 
> I edited this on March 30, 2019, in case it seems any different!


	3. Paisley Shirts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: this might be a bit triggering for those who are struggling with their sexuality

Spoiler Alert -

He saw it.

And not only did he  _see it,_ Ryan discovered, but he listened to it.

And he  _responded._

And that's how Ryan Ross ended up standing in the office of Brendon Urie's school, waiting for him to meet him in the front hall.

"Ryan? What's going on?"

Ryan takes a moment to gaze at the boy in front of him, letting his eyes rake down from his ebony-black hair to the tips of his shoes.

"He saw it."

There was a pause, a moment of pure silence, the last minute where they normal kids. Then..

"What do you mean."

"He didn't just see it, Brendon." Ryan whispered, taking the boy in front of him's hands in his own. "He listened." Brendon's eyes widened slightly, the deep brown of his meeting Ryan's. "And he's flying us out to meet with him."

"What?" 

Ryan paused, looking at Brendon's eyes, before giving a slight nod in confirmation.

"Oh my god I could kiss you right now!" 

This definitely earned an odd look from a probably-Mormon peer, but Brendon didn't see this as he was too busy throwing himself around the boy in front of him.

"Please  _don-"_ Ryan started, hugging Brendon back as he rocked them back and forth, Brendon's giddy whispers losing themself in the threads of Ryan's scarf. Ryan could feel the warmth of his arms, the slight change in the air that came with his hot breath as it seeped into his shoulder.

"Have you told-"

"They're in the car."

Brendon broke away, holding Ryan out at an arm's length like a proud mother.

"So you're pulling me out of school?"

This caused Ryan to burst into laughter.

"Of course I am, dipshit! Pete Wentz offered us a probable record deal, and you think I'm making you  _go back to math_?"

"What about my parents?"

Ryan rolled his eyes.

"It's like skipping class. You'll be fine."

Brendon gave him a semi anxious look, an eyebrow raising, finger-twiddling,  _Ryan are you sure?_ look. 

"You mean to tell me, Brendon Boyd Urie, that you have  _never skipped class?"_

To be honest, if you captured this scene in a video-camera and then slowed it down, you would probably be able to see the suicide of Brendon Urie's reputation. The image was pretty strange, as Ryan and Brendon looked like polar opposites. Brendon stood in a crisp white shirt paired with loose jeans, right down to his semi-pointed shoes. His mormon-looking appearance wouldn't be complete without the thin silver cross that his parents forced him to wear hanging around his neck, his hair neatly brushed and his body smelling of deodorant and a tinge of cologne. Ryan Ross, however, soaked up the eyes of every passerby in his dark leather jacket, skinny jeans, and scarf. He was the exact kind of boy that the Urie's  _did not associate with._

The exact type of boy that a Urie Boy would not go running up to and grasp tightly.

The exact type of boy that a Urie Boy would not allow to place his arm around his waist, and guide him out the front doors and into a run-down car out front.

But then again, a lot of the Urie family's rules were being broken.

And even more of the Urie family's rules were broken as their youngest son tilted his head back and laughed, falling father into Ryan Ross's lap, his left hand clutched around a beer, letting the filthy devils-influence slide down his throat. Their rules were broken as Brendon Urie booked his plane ticket, and as he placed a giddy, drunk-and-happy induced kiss to Ryan Ross's cheek.

Especially, as sixth period rolled on.

But, of course, nothing could have prepared them for when Brendon Urie sobered up, and shared his life with his family for the first time.

Brendon Urie had to change, of course, and tossed his beer-soaked white button down in the back of Ryan's car, not realizing as his cross slipped off over his head, falling down in between the front and passenger seat.

And they did not have another thought about it as Brendon pulled on Ryan's paisley button down, and as Spencer brushed his hair.

They did not have another thought as Ryan did the button on his shirt, binding the fabric that Ryan knew and loved to the boy's body.

They did not have another thought as Ryan's hands lingered too long on the top button, his nimble fingers resting upon Brendon's upper chest, as Brendon stood and went to go into his home and tell his parents his plans for the future.

They did not have another thought as they drove away, giddy and happy, leaving Brendon at the mercy of his and his parent's words.

-!-

-!-

"You weren't at school today. I got a call."

"Yeah."

"Mind telling me why?"

Brendon paused. 

"Ryan picked me up. You know Ryan."

"You mean George? I don't know about him. He shouldn't be disrupting your education." 

Brendon tore his eyes away from the floor, settling them on his mother and father sitting on the red suede couch set in the center of his living room.

If this was a painting, Brendon Decided, it would be a Rembrandt. A woman and a man, side by side, the dark light of his thoughts casting shadows along their faces, the oil paint dripping down, the depressing beauty of Rembrandt's paintings causing their very living eyes to look very cold and cruel. The focal point - the couple, would sit pompous and ruling, their reign casting over everything in the bleak and dark room.

The painting, he decided?

It would be called   _Impending Tragedy_ _._

"He had some good news for me."

_"Hmm?"_

"Good news. Um, a possible record deal. For the band."

_Silence._

_Silence._

_Silence._

_God, why won't you say something. Can you say something? Please._

_Silence._

Finally, she spoke.

"Why aren't you wearing your cross?"

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

"I guess it fell off. Accidentally. But, um, I need to fly somewhere- LA. If that's okay."

"No. No way. Is this about the record deal?"

"Yes."

"Brendon. You aren't going to make a living off of this music thing. It's not going to happen. And I can't have you jeopardizing your education because of it."

"Mom-"

"Brendon, you cannot go to Los Angeles. I won't let you set yourself up for failure."

"It's not failure. They  _like our music."_

"Brendon Urie, those boys are not good for you. Not good for your education. I doubt their music is very appropriate, huh?"

"Momma, it's our music."

"Brendon Boyd Urie, you need to focus on your education. I see no girlfriend in your life, and going to church doesn't interest you anymore. You skipped school, for goodness sakes."

"Momma, that's not true. I love them. They love me. They're good people, I swear."

"You aren't going to Los Angeles. That is final. And I won't let you out of this house to go to your practices if they are going to have such a negative influence on you."

"They aren't."

"Brendon." His father finally spoke, his voice sharp and cutting through the air.

"Who's shirt are you wearing?"

_This isn't happening._

_This isn't happening._

_Dad,_ Brendon wanted to say. He wanted to say it, to pour it all out.  _I don't know. I don't know who's shirt I'm wearing. I don't know who dressed me in it. I don't know who brushed my hair off my cheek or wrote the lyrics for my voice and I don't know who's shirt I'm wearing. I don't know him, and I don't know what I feel for him._

Brendon didn't know why he was thinking this now. Thinking about the touches, the lingering glances.

How much he wanted to kiss the boy who dressed him in it.

How much of a goddamned freak he was.

Why the fuck would he want to kiss Ryan?

He is a boy.

Boys don't kiss boys.

Boy's who kiss boys go to hell, and Brendon was  _not going to hell._

So why couldn't he stop thinking about the soft lips on his, how warm his breath would feel when Brendon's lips would quench it.

How nice Ryan's calloused fingertips would feel brushing Brendon's cheeks.

How hot the scorching fires of hell would feel on his back when it was all over, when the Devil's lashes would whip him when it all ended.

Why was he thinking of this now?

Why was he silent for so long?

_Who's shirt are you wearing?_

"Ryan's." 

There was a pause. His dad understood. His mom understood. Did they understand? They loved him. They could see right through him. They knew what was going on in his head, they were violating his personal private thoughts and burning his personal private love. 

They knew.

They knew what he didn't.

He wasn't going to succeed in life. Musicians don't have careers. His parents were right.

But that wasn't what they were angry about.

"Brendon?"

"Momma, don't do it. Please. Momma-"

"Get out of my house." 


	4. Secrecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I hope you guys liked it

_Los Angeles, California_

Brendon still hadn't told them as the plane touched down in LAX, and he hadn't explained why he refused to sit down next to Ryan Ross on the flight down.  

He still hadn't told them as they caught a cab down to Pete Wentz's apartment.

He still hadn't told them as they buzzed in.

And he still hadn't told them why, as Ryan Ross brushed against his wrist, he pulled away so abruptly.

"Hey, man."

_Hey, man._

What were they expecting? Certainly not for Pete Wentz to show up at the door, letting them in in a pair of basketball shorts and his own band's t-shirt. Brendon's eyes raked down his body, his gaze catching on the blunt dangling loosely from the dark-haired man's hand.

This was not how a business meeting was _supposed_ to go.

There was a beat of awkward, stunned silence, a _holy-shit-that's-actually-pete-wentz_ silence. Then...

"Hey, man." Ryan Ross steps forward, always the savior, and awkwardly moves to shake Pete Wentz's hand, who pushes it away to give him a hug.

"Man, I'm so glad you guys are here. Come in, come on up."

The four teenaged boys traipsed into the older man's apartment, their awkward bodies shifting and bumping against each other as they squished into the space.

"Sit, sit, sit."

All emotions that Brendon Urie had about Ryan Ross in that moment was gone in an instant, as he was suddenly being shoved into a couch up against him.

"So, first order of business," Pete says, slamming a case of beer onto the sheet-music covered coffee table.

"You boys have some place to stay tonight, right?"

Three boys nodded, but Brendon Urie shook his head slightly.  

"Couldn't.. really... afford-"

"Don't worry. You can stay with me, I've got a couch."

Ryan opened his mouth, about to protest with a ' _you can stay with me at the hotel'_ when Brendon burst into a smile and accepted his offer.

"Now," Pete says, tilting back in his chair, folding his hands. The boys watched intently as he laced his fingers and slammed his feet on the table in front of him.

"Now, that that's in order."

He let a small smile slip from his lips, making excited eye contact with Ryan.

"Let's talk about the music."

-!-

-!-

-!-

Pete Wentz was always a careful man.

Well, not necessarily. He was not careful when it came to drugs, or drinking, or band-related things, or press. He was really not a careful man at all.

Except about Mikey Way.

See, Pete Wentz's relationship with Mikey Way was complicated. Not in the sense that it was, say, an on-and-off relationship. No, it was very on. All the time.

They fucked. And kissed. And called. And texted. And held hands. And cuddled. And emailed. And wrote love-notes.

And nobody knew.

Well, until now.

Nobody knew until Pete Wentz got a call at 11 pm that night, lightly excused himself from the room that Brendon Urie was sitting in, and allowed his heart to skip a beat.

"Hey, baby."

The soft voice of Mikey Way floated through Pete's phone, his words seeping into Pete's mind and turning him into a love-sick teenager.

"Hi."

"How was your meeting with those teenagers?" He asked, and Pete could hear his fingers distractedly drumming on whatever surface was next to him.

"Good, I guess. They're real cocky online, but most've 'em are quiet. There's this weird kid, though. The singer, dude? Somethin's goin on."

Mikey made a noise of affirmation as he shifted the phone, causing Pete to hear the wonderful sound of the younger Way brother's breath.

"Well, do you think tha-" Mikey was interrupted with the sound of a door banging open, causing Pete to jump slightly. Then...

"FRANK, GET THE EVERLOVING FUCK OUT OF MY ROOM! I'M ON THE PHONE!" Pete stifled a laugh as the sound of something thrown filled the tinny speakers, and as the obnoxious voice of the other New Jersey boy shoved itself into the phone.

"With who?” Frank jeered. “More important than me?"

"Fuck you."

"Hostile much?"

"I'm. Busy."

"Mikey, but Gerard wants you."

"Bye."

Pete could hear the various noises of scuffling before the sound of a door being slammed shut.

"MIKEY!"

"FUCK OFF!"

 

"You can go, Mikey, I won't mind." Pete laughed into the phone, hearing a light scoff from the other boy. He was able to picture his slight smile.

"No, I want to hear about your day, _Petey."_ He added a teasing noise to the last word, causing Pete to let out a soft laugh again.

"Where are you guys?" Pete mumbled into his phone, keeping his voice low.

"Nowhere near LA. I wish. I'm starting to miss you, you know."

"I miss you too."

There was a pause, a beat of silence.

"You better be wearing my jacket right now."

"I just got it out, you needy bitch."

There was another soft laugh from Mikey's end of the call as Pete heard the shuffling noises that indicated Mikey burrowing deeper into his bunk mattress.

"If you weren't wearing my jacket, then what did you wear to this _business meeting?"_

"Oh shut _up."_

"Aw, come on, there's nothing wrong with wanting to know what you're wearing."

"Well, it would be nothing if you were here right now."

This seemed to shut Mikey up for a moment, Pete getting to indulge in the faint noises of his body shifting in his bunk.

"Well, I mean, if I _was-"_

"MIKEY, GET THE FUCK UP!"

There were four solid bangs on the bus door on Mikey's end before he jumped up, shouting back.

"GERARD, FUCK OFF! I'M BUSY!"

"MIKEY! NOW!"

Pete heard a long, teenager-sounding groan, before the noise of covers being kicked off.

"FINE! BUT _FUCK. YOU."_

"Sorry, baby." Mikey turned, his voice suddenly soft again, speaking into the phone with love and care.

"It's fine. The kid's here, so I probably shouldn't be having phone sex anyways."

"Why's the kid ther-"

"MIKEY! LET'S GO!"

"Bye."

There was a beat of silence, a moment where the two men could just enjoy each other's breathing.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"MIKEY!"

"JESUS!"

"Bye, babe. Have good luck with the kid."

"Will do."

A beat of silence, then dial tone.

Pete sighed, pushing himself off the bed and wrapping himself in Mikey Way's jacket. Inhaling the sweetness of his skin. Wishing he was here. It was all routine. After all, who flies out for _one day?_ Not them. Too obvious.

Pete just wanted to be _kissed_ right about now, goddammit.

He stepped out of his room, closing the door softly.

"Hey, kid."

Brendon pushed away from the computer Pete had logged him into, shooting a look around guiltily.

"What're you looking at? Porn? I don't mind."

"Nah." There was a nervous laugh, and Pete leaned over the back of Brendon's chair.

"Oh." He paused, watching as Brendon closed the tab. "Houses."

Brendon shrugged, his nervosity sliding off his shoulders.

"Thinking of moving out of the folks'?"

"Nah, they kicked me out."  

"Shit." That was not the answer that Pete expected. "Want to talk about it?"

Brendon shrugged again.

"Come on, man."

Pete beckoned him over to the couch, extending a blunt and a beer.

"Why'd they do it?"

"Don't support the music thing." A long pause, a beat of silence, uncertainty filling the air.  "And they think I'm a homo."

"Well," Pete said, his shock un-apparent. Brendon wondered if Pete was just always stoned or if he was  _that_ obvious. "Are you?"

"No!"

"You answered a bit too fast, kid."

Brendon crossed his arms, biting his lip slightly.

"I mean, I guess. Like, for one person."

"Oh, that Ryan kid?"

Brendon's jaw dropped and he choked on the smoke he was struggling to inhale.

_"What?"_

"Nah, man. I get it. I love that shit."  

Brendon raised his eyebrow, a question playing on his lips.

"You know that Mikey kid, from MyChem?"

He paused, nodding slightly.

"Yeah, I'm a fag for him."

"Oh-- oh."

"Can't tell anybody, though." Pete waited a moment. "We gotta stick together, man."

"Okay."

"You tell, I sue your ass."

"Well, considering that last night I slept under a bridge, you won't get much coin out of it."

Pete chose to stay silent after that, watching Brendon slowly get better at drawing out the sweet smoke from the blunt in his hand.

"Ya know, kid. I like you. You're like me."

Brendon looked up slightly, his eyes wide.

"Does that mean--"

"Yeah." Pete smiled. "Fuck it, I'll sign ya."


	5. Bathrooms, Bedrooms, and Blunts

When Ryan Ross, Spencer Smith, and Brent Wilson arrived at Pete Wentz's apartment the next day, they were greeted with the sight that was probably from a dream.

Brendon Urie leaned over Pete's kitchen counter, a beer and blunt in his hand like his new mentor, laughing hysterically at something Pete had said.

"Brendon?"

"Ohmigod Ryan! You aren't going to believe this!" Brendon called, dropping the blunt onto the floor and running up to the boy. Everything that Ryan was  _seeing_ he wasn't believing, but what Brendon said next made what Ryan was seeing seem even more like a dream.

"I was talking to Pete, and he said that we should record as soon as possible! Remember how I said that we'd gotten signed, well, Pete just hast to  _make_ a label first. Then we can make a record!" His face alight with childlike glee, Brendon wrapped his arms around Ryan and Spencer. Brent backed up.

"Brendon," Ryan started, pausing slightly. How had this happened? People spend years, months,  _lifetimes_ trying to do this, and Brendon just had one good night with Pete Wentz and now he was  _creating a record label for them?_

"Yeah?" 

"Nothin." Ryan pulled him in close, smothering the boy in his chest. 

Behind them, Pete smiled. 

"Okay, well, Brendon, do you want to grab your bag so you guys can head to the airport? It's just in the back room there..." Pete started, his eyes fixed on the center of Ryan's face. 

The floor creaked as Brendon turned to go to the back room.

The flat shifted as Pete walked up to Ryan, gripped his fore-arm slightly, and whispered into his ear.

_"I need to talk to you."_

Now, as Ryan Ross was a relatively tall, leather jacket wearing, mildly intimidating man, it did come across quite odd that the 5'6", t-shirt and basketball-short clad man would be so assertive.

Ryan stepped into the bathroom after him, watching anxiously as he shut the door.

"Sit."  Pete patted the rim of the bathtub, motioning for him to take a seat. "Let's have a chat."

Ryan shuffled after him, slipping onto the edge of the bath. He pulled his knees up close to him, fidgeting his fingers as he met the elder man's eyes.

"Tell me about his home life."

"What?" This was not what Ryan was expecting, a statement instead of a question, a question about  _Brendon_ instead of  _the music._

"The kid, Brendon. Tell me about his home life. He lives with his family?"

"Yeah. Um, I mean, he's a high schooler. He lives at home."

Pete clucked his tongue. 

"So, he didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Ryan's eyes widened slightly, raising his face to meet Pete's.

"That they kicked the kid out."  

The color drained out of Ryan's face, the bottom lip that he had bit down on slipping out of his teeth's grasp.

"What? Are you kidding?" 

His voice came out sharp, cutting through the air in between them.

"Yeah. They kicked the kid out. He told me he slept under a bridge. Talk to him." 

This was all that Pete said, standing up and brushing off his lap as to not stoop himself as low as to sit on the bathtub any longer.

"No, wait, hold on-"

"Talk to the kid, man." Leaving Ryan open-mouthed and confused, Pete placed his cigarette back in his mouth. He wiped the moisture left on it from the sink off on  his fingertips before grabbing a lighter and igniting it, leaving the nineteen year old behind shocked.

"Um, Mr. We-"

"Pete."

"Would you mind, uh, calling them in for a band meeting?"

"Sure." 

He turned and left the room, leaving Ryan slumped over as he placed his head in his hands. 

"Fuck." He mumbled to himself, his lips pursed as he shook his head back and forth. "Fuck fuck fuck  _fuck."_

_"Ryan?"_

Ryan put his head up as he made eye contact with Brendon, who had Spencer and Brent on his tail, as he entered the bathroom.

"Bren." 

His eyes wide and pupils dilated, he stood up to face the younger boy.

"Is there something you want to tell us?"

Silence.

He looked down, fear etched on his body like a deer in the headlights.

"No."

"Okay, is there something that you  _should_ tell us?"

Spencer cocked an eyebrow, shifting to lean next to Brent on the wall.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, what?" Ryan asked, his voice coming out a little too strong, a little too sharp, a little too forceful.

"Yeah, it's true." Brendon said, dully, tears slowly filling his eyes. "They kicked me out."

"Wait,  _what the fuck?"_ Spencer launched himself off of the wall, about to step forward, pushing past Brent sputtering in the corner.

"They did  _what?"_

"They-- they kicked me out." Looking down at the little boy's broken, tearful face, it was all it took for Ryan's emotions to kick in.

"I'm gonna fucking  _kill them."_ He growled. 

Spencer, however, who seemed to realize that that was  _not_ the best response, took initiative and wrapped his arms around the tiny boy.

"You can stay with me."

"No," Ryan interjected, slightly panicked. "You can stay with me, it's fine."

"I have the most room." Spencer brought up. "It makes the most sense. We can rotate. Bren, stay with me, then a night with Ryan, then a night with Brent."

"Why'd they kick you ou-"

"Not  _now,_ Brent." Ryan waved him off, pushing Brent backwards as he attempted to take Brendon from Spencer's arms to his own.

"We're gonna miss our flight." Brendon mumbled, pushing away from Ryan.

 _Fuck, Brendon._ Ryan thought.  _I just want to touch you. What's wrong with that?_

What exactly was wrong with that, Ryan never got to ask, because at that moment Brendon pushed past all of them and out the bathroom door. 

"Let's go. We're gonna miss our flight."

Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Okay." 

He stared at the boy's back, watching the muscles twitch with uncertainty, watching his shoulder's shake with emotion, watching his fingers wipe away the tears.

"Let's go."

-!-

-!-

-!-

_Two Nights Later_

His eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, Spencer Smith traded Brendon Urie off at band practice two nights later. 

Brendon sighed, his fingers fidgeting against his thighs. He was going home with Ryan, and, after an awkward and self-conscious night spent with Spencer, he was excited to breathe with his... best friend.

Yeah.

His  _best friend._

He was having to keep reminding himself that Ryan was his best friend lately.

As he slid into Ryan's passenger seat, tossing his guitar in the back, he had to bite his tongue to keep from babbling aimlessly. 

"How was last night?" 

"Fine, I guess. A little awkward."

Ryan put the car in reverse, trying to look in the rear-view mirror and in Brendon's eyes at the same time.

"Yeah? It's just Spencer, though."

"Not the same." He mumbled softly, using the rusted lever to tilt his seat back. The worn leather seat shifted slightly, spilling him closer to Ryan. Brendon was too beaten down to snatch himself away, and, instead, decided to  dwell in his sorrow and depression and tilt his head onto Ryan's shoulder. Ryan obliged, craning his neck so that his chin rested on the younger boy's brow. 

_Why wasn't Ryan pulling away?_

This was one of Brendon's first thoughts, as it had not yet occurred to him that they used to do this  _all the time._

"You okay?"

The sentiment, murmured against Brendon's hair as Ryan awkwardly drove, sounded kind of strange coming from Ryan's lips.

It sounded even stranger when he asked it again that night, at 11:40 pm, as Brendon lie facedown on Ryan's dorm bed.

Brendon mumbled something into the covers of Ryan's sheets, trying to muffle his tears by speaking directly to the pillow.

"Hey."

Ryan Ross was not known for being a gentle, sentimental person, but the people that said that had clearly never felt his long fingers pressed against their shaking back at 11:42 pm. 

"Hey." Brendon responded, barely speaking.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bren."

"I just miss them."

Ryan looked down, running his fingers up and down Brendon's back. He had gotten up off of the separate air mattress he was meant to be sleeping on and was now sitting on his real bed next to Brendon, rubbing his back lightly.

"I'm sorry."

Brendon didn't respond to this, choosing instead to bury his face deeper into the blankets.

"Hey, Bren, talk to me." 

Ryan was making a considerable effort to be sentimental, something that had been quite hard for him in the past.

"It sounds stupid."

Ryan leaned forward, speaking next to Brendon's ear. Even though Brendon was on the verge of his breakdown, the hot breath still sent a shiver down his spine.

_"Tell me anyways."_

Brendon paused, knowing that Ryan would laugh. His respond was too easy, he wanted to say it so bad. His voice came out quiet, meek, boyish.

"I just miss my mama."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ryan's corner, before Brendon felt a sheet being pulled back on the bed. He raised his head slightly, peering at Ryan from under his hair.

Brendon could suddenly feel the warmth of another body next to him, and soon, Ryan's scrawny arms were being wrapped around him.

"It's okay." 

There was a beat of silence as Brendon shifted closer awkwardly, trying his hardest to ignore the circumstances.

"Sorry, I'm not too good at being comforting." Ryan gave a slight nervous laugh, which was soon silenced as Brendon tucked his head into Ryan's chest.

Soon, Ryan's fingers found their way into Brendon's hair, slowly pushing the back of his head into the older boy's body. 

"It's okay, I don't mind."  Brendon's response came out muffled, and Ryan could feel a slight dampness from his tears start to seep into his shirt.

"Hey." Ryan mumbled again, running his hands through his hair again.

"It's okay."

Brendon closed his eyes, tilting as close as possible to the heat of Ryan's body.

"Just try and get some sleep."

Tucked closely to Ryan Ross's body, his hands wound around his waist, his tears drying on his shirt, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this update came late, I went to a Panic! concert on Saturday and I had to travel to get there. also, thank you for almost 100 hits! that's so cool! if any of you guys want to chat, feel free to hit me up on Wattpad or Tumblr, my username is the same!


	6. Sleepovers

When Ryan Ross, Spencer Smith, and Brent Wilson arrived at Pete Wentz's apartment the next day, they were greeted with the sight that was probably from a dream.

Brendon Urie leaned over Pete's kitchen counter, a beer and blunt in his hand like his new mentor, laughing hysterically at something Pete had said.

"Brendon?"

"Ohmigod Ryan! You aren't going to believe this!" Brendon called, dropping the blunt onto the floor and running up to the boy. Everything that Ryan was seeing he wasn't believing, but what Brendon said next made what Ryan was seeing seem even more like a dream.

"I was talking to Pete, and he said that we should record as soon as possible! Remember how I said that we'd gotten signed, well, Pete just hast to make a label first. Then we can make a record!" His face alight with childlike glee, Brendon wrapped his arms around Ryan and Spencer. Brent backed up.

"Brendon," Ryan started, pausing slightly. How had this happened? People spend years, months, lifetimes trying to do this, and Brendon just had one good night with Pete Wentz and now he was creating a record label for them?

"Yeah?" 

"Nothin." Ryan pulled him in close, smothering the boy in his chest. 

Behind them, Pete smiled. 

"Okay, well, Brendon, do you want to grab your bag so you guys can head to the airport? It's just in the back room there..." Pete started, his eyes fixed on the center of Ryan's face. 

The floor creaked as Brendon turned to go to the back room.

The flat shifted as Pete walked up to Ryan, gripped his fore-arm slightly, and whispered into his ear.

"I need to talk to you."

Now, as Ryan Ross was a relatively tall, leather jacket wearing, mildly intimidating man, it did come across quite odd that the 5'6", t-shirt and basketball-short clad man would be so assertive.

Ryan stepped into the bathroom after him, watching anxiously as he shut the door.

"Sit." Pete patted the rim of the bathtub, motioning for him to take a seat. "Let's have a chat."

Ryan shuffled after him, slipping onto the edge of the bath. He pulled his knees up close to him, fidgeting his fingers as he met the elder man's eyes.

"Tell me about his home life."

"What?" This was not what Ryan was expecting, a statement instead of a question, a question about Brendon instead of the music. 

"The kid, Brendon. Tell me about his home life. He lives with his family?"

"Yeah. Um, I mean, he's a high schooler. He lives at home."

Pete clucked his tongue. 

"So, he didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Ryan's eyes widened slightly, raising his face to meet Pete's.

"That they kicked the kid out." 

The color drained out of Ryan's face, the bottom lip that he had bit down on slipping out of his teeth's grasp.

"What? Are you kidding?" 

His voice came out sharp, cutting through the air in between them.

"Yeah. They kicked the kid out. He told me he slept under a bridge. Talk to him." 

This was all that Pete said, standing up and brushing off his lap as to not stoop himself as low as to sit on the bathtub any longer.

"No, wait, hold on-"

"Talk to the kid, man." Leaving Ryan open-mouthed and confused, Pete placed his cigarette back in his mouth. He wiped the moisture left on it from the sink off on his fingertips before grabbing a lighter and igniting it, leaving the nineteen year old behind shocked.

"Um, Mr. We-"

"Pete."

"Would you mind, uh, calling them in for a band meeting?"

"Sure." 

He turned and left the room, leaving Ryan slumped over as he placed his head in his hands. 

"Fuck." He mumbled to himself, his lips pursed as he shook his head back and forth. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck." 

"Ryan?"

Ryan put his head up as he made eye contact with Brendon, who had Spencer and Brent on his tail, as he entered the bathroom.

"Bren." 

His eyes wide and pupils dilated, he stood up to face the younger boy.

"Is there something you want to tell us?"

Silence.

He looked down, fear etched on his body like a deer in the headlights.

"No."

"Okay, is there something that you should tell us?"

Spencer cocked an eyebrow, shifting to lean next to Brent on the wall.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, what?" Ryan asked, his voice coming out a little too strong, a little too sharp, a little too forceful.

"Yeah, it's true." Brendon said, dully, tears slowly filling his eyes. "They kicked me out."

"Wait, what the fuck?" Spencer launched himself off of the wall, about to step forward, pushing past Brent sputtering in the corner.

"They did what?"

"They-- they kicked me out." Looking down at the little boy's broken, tearful face, it was all it took for Ryan's emotions to kick in.

"I'm gonna fucking kill them." He growled. 

Spencer, however, who seemed to realize that that was not the best response, took initiative and wrapped his arms around the tiny boy.

"You can stay with me."

"No," Ryan interjected, slightly panicked. "You can stay with me, it's fine."

"I have the most room." Spencer brought up. "It makes the most sense. We can rotate. Bren, stay with me, then a night with Ryan, then a night with Brent."

"Why'd they kick you ou-"

"Not now, Brent." Ryan waved him off, pushing Brent backwards as he attempted to take Brendon from Spencer's arms to his own.

"We're gonna miss our flight." Brendon mumbled, pushing away from Ryan.

Fuck, Brendon. Ryan thought. I just want to touch you. What's wrong with that?

What exactly was wrong with that, Ryan never got to ask, because at that moment Brendon pushed past all of them and out the bathroom door. 

"Let's go. We're gonna miss our flight."

Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Okay." 

He stared at the boy's back, watching the muscles twitch with uncertainty, watching his shoulder's shake with emotion, watching his fingers wipe away the tears.

"Let's go."

-

-

-

Two Nights Later

His eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, Spencer Smith traded Brendon Urie off at band practice two nights later. 

Brendon sighed, his fingers fidgeting against his thighs. He was going home with Ryan, and, after an awkward and self-conscious night spent with Spencer, he was excited to breathe with his... best friend.

Yeah.

His best friend.

He was having to keep reminding himself that Ryan was his best friend lately.

As he slid into Ryan's passenger seat, tossing his guitar in the back, he had to bite his tongue to keep from babbling aimlessly. 

"How was last night?" 

"Fine, I guess. A little awkward."

Ryan put the car in reverse, trying to look in the rear-view mirror and in Brendon's eyes at the same time.

"Yeah? It's just Spencer, though."

"Not the same." He mumbled softly, using the rusted lever to tilt his seat back. The worn leather seat shifted slightly, spilling him closer to Ryan. Brendon was too beaten down to snatch himself away, and, instead, decided to dwell in his sorrow and depression and tilt his head onto Ryan's shoulder. Ryan obliged, craning his neck so that his chin rested on the younger boy's brow. 

Why wasn't Ryan pulling away?

This was one of Brendon's first thoughts, as it had not yet occurred to him that they used to do this all the time.

"You okay?"

The sentiment, murmured against Brendon's hair as Ryan awkwardly drove, sounded kind of strange coming from Ryan's lips.

It sounded even stranger when he asked it again that night, at 11:40 pm, as Brendon lie facedown on Ryan's dorm bed.

Brendon mumbled something into the covers of Ryan's sheets, trying to muffle his tears by speaking directly to the pillow.

"Hey."

Ryan Ross was not known for being a gentle, sentimental person, but the people that said that had clearly never felt his long fingers pressed against their shaking back at 11:42 pm. 

"Hey." Brendon responded, barely speaking.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bren."

"I just miss them."

Ryan looked down, running his fingers up and down Brendon's back. He had gotten up off of the separate air mattress he was meant to be sleeping on and was now sitting on his real bed next to Brendon, rubbing his back lightly.

"I'm sorry."

Brendon didn't respond to this, choosing instead to bury his face deeper into the blankets.

"Hey, Bren, talk to me." 

Ryan was making a considerable effort to be sentimental, something that had been quite hard for him in the past.

"It sounds stupid."

Ryan leaned forward, speaking next to Brendon's ear. Even though Brendon was on the verge of his breakdown, the hot breath still sent a shiver down his spine.

"Tell me anyways."

Brendon paused, knowing that Ryan would laugh. His respond was too easy, he wanted to say it so bad. His voice came out quiet, meek, boyish.

"I just miss my mama."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ryan's corner, before Brendon felt a sheet being pulled back on the bed. He raised his head slightly, peering at Ryan from under his hair.

Brendon could suddenly feel the warmth of another body next to him, and soon, Ryan's scrawny arms were being wrapped around him.

"It's okay." 

There was a beat of silence as Brendon shifted closer awkwardly, trying his hardest to ignore the circumstances.

"Sorry, I'm not too good at being comforting." Ryan gave a slight nervous laugh, which was soon silenced as Brendon tucked his head into Ryan's chest.

Soon, Ryan's fingers found their way into Brendon's hair, slowly pushing the back of his head into the older boy's body. 

"It's okay, I don't mind." Brendon's response came out muffled, and Ryan could feel a slight dampness from his tears start to seep into his shirt.

"Hey." Ryan mumbled again, running his hands through his hair again.

"It's okay."

Brendon closed his eyes, tilting as close as possible to the heat of Ryan's body.

"Just try and get some sleep."

Tucked closely to Ryan Ross's body, his hands wound around his waist, his tears drying on his shirt, he did.


	7. Hallucinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all enjoy this, sorry it's late :)  
> i'd love to talk to all of you on tumblr or wattpad, its ladypseudonym  
> also, if you wanna hmu on livejournal its @shehadtheworld1  
> love you all :)

The back steps creaked, the wood on George's shitty back porch shifting under their joint weight.

It was probably around four am, and Brendon was pressed close to his body along the railing of the falling-down wooden structure. Ryan glanced up, gazing at the sky alight with millions of stars.

"You okay?"

Brendon's voice was soft and hot in his ear, more real than anything he could imagine, his fingertips playing up and down on Ryan's wrist.

"Why are you asking me, Mr. Homeless?"

He laughed softly, his breath tickling the other boy's skin and his lips moving to form the words. Ryan wanted nothing more to listen to him speak to him, to hear the words etch themselves into his mind, to know that Brendon wanted to talk to him and only him.

"Because you seem deep in thought, Ross."

He turns, his eyes raking his face and body, his gaze dipping down to his collarbone and then back up.

"I'm worried about you."

The words came out quiet, seeping into the brown of his eyes as his touch played up and down the older boy's arms.

"Why?"

He shrugged, and Brendon let out a sad smile.

"What do you see out there, Ry?"

"Night." Ryan paused. "Dark."

He shifted behind Ryan, his arms wrapping along his shoulders as he gestured out to the vast beyond.

"That's my life right there, Ry. Dark. It stretches and stretches forever, for years and years, and each star is a person, an opportunity."

He turns to face him, encapsulated by his words.

“When does it end?”

Brendon pauses, moving slightly closer.

_“When day breaks.”_

The voice sent shivers down Ryan’s spine.

"Don't be afraid of the dark, Ryan." He whispers. Ryan can feel him now, the pads of his fingertips on his cheeks, his hot breath splaying over his lips. The soft moonlight falls down, winding itself around them. It sewed itself through their bodies, the heavy threads binding them together, forcing their shapes into the cold night.

"Bren-"

"Don't be afraid of the dark."

And, right as their lips decided to connect, he woke up.

-!-

-!-

Ryan awoke with the sudden need for a cold shower.

His body was still wound around Brendon's from his breakdown the previous night, and, though the bed and his warm body were begging him to stay, he knew he needed to remove himself from the situation before he had time to think too much.

_Buthishairandhislipsandthewaythathisskinsmells._

_Ryan, no._

He pushed himself out of the bed, ignoring his subconscious protest. It wasn't until the water poured down his back that he finally had time to register what had happened.

He had _dreamt_ about _kissing Brendon._

Not sex, not dirty words, not anything. But intimacy, a soft domestic moment that ended with a kiss.

Not even his tongue in his mouth.

_For Brendon._

_With another man._

Uh-uh, Ryan. Nope. No way. Showershowershowershower done with the situation showershowershower nope don't think about him in the next room, probably reaching out for him, wondering where his warmth went, no, showershowershower, what did he dream about, no, showershowershower, _don't be afraid of the dark._

He turned the temperature down another notch.

_Fuck._

_What if he could hear me showering?_ He wondered.

_Would he open the door, step inside, pull back the shower curt--_

Ryan, no. Go away, thoughts. Turn the temperature down.

_Would I have to make the water hot, steam curling around our bodies, the bathtub creaking to accommodate the extra person?_

Ryan was now pushing the temperature down to the extreme that the water pressure had decreased greatly.  

 _Or was he changing?_ Ryan's thoughts wandered. _Was he shedding his pants, reaching out for a new pair, his hands dragging themselves down his toned stomach, fingering the waistband of his underwear?_

The water shut off as Ryan attempted to make it colder.

As timing had it, the exact moment that Ryan stepped into the bedroom again was as Brendon was pulling a shirt on, the fabric skimming over his soft skin. The shirt was a crisp white that fitted over his dark-wash jeans, and, as he combed his hand with one hand,  he messily gestured for a straightening iron with the other.

"Fuck, where's my cross?"

"Brendon, why do you need your cross?" Ryan asked, handing over his straightening iron and watching as the younger boy used it to crispen his already flat shirt.

"Cause what else am I going to wear to school?"

"What?"

"School, Ryan. It's a Monday. I'm already late."

"Bren, _school? Really?"_

"Yeah. I need classes to graduate. _Fuck. Where is it?"_

"Brendon, you're still going to school?"

Brendon paused, his eyes widening slightly, his hand freezing in midair.

"My parents want me to get a good education. I only have like a month or two left until graduation. It's 45 minutes, you'll have to drive me."

"Bren, _your parents kicked you out."_

"And?"

The two boys had a mental stare-down, lasting a solid four minutes before Ryan carefully crossed to his desk.

"Here."

His arm stretched out as the chain dangled from his fingertips, offering his necklace to Brendon. A silver dog tag hung from the delicate band, the words **_George Ryan Ross III_ ** inscribed in it. Brendon cautiously took it, running his fingers over the words. Young Ryan had scratched the word **_George_ ** out with a pocketknife, leaving an ugly gash before the words **_Ryan Ross III._ **A sad attempt at denying his past heritage.

He paused.

"Until you can find your cross."


	8. Bassists and Bibles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, been having some issues but it's all worked out now :)

Brendon Boyd Urie graduated high school wearing his same old clothes and another boy's dog tag, and, right as the bell rang the previous day, he had walked straight into the van parked out front.

He didn't get to walk his graduation.

Instead, he spent graduation day in a musty van on his way to Maryland, his body tight against Ryan's in the backseat after Ryan and Brent had traded off on driving.

Maryland tasted of four things;

Mediocrity

Sunshine

Musk

and possibilities.

College Park was a perfectly okay place. It was the perfect place to record an album, as without the music they'd go insane. But, it seemed that this was not the same thought process that all of them had.

Because, though they had to do  _the most_ work they'd ever dreamed of, there was one problem.

See, they couldn't record an album if one of their band members wasn't showing up.

And, it was the fifth day of being trapped in a recording studio, and Brent Wilson was not there. 

They waited for thirty minutes.

Then forty-five.

Then an hour.

Then two.

Until, finally, Ryan Ross picked up a bass and clumsily recorded his parts as it was  _clear_ that he was not showing up anytime soon. 

Brent didn't show up at all, and, so, as they tasted the sweet sweet Maryland air of commuters and smog, they went back to the rented flat. 

Brent was not there. 

The rooms still smelled like Chinese takeout when Brendon tuckered into bed, and he could hear the shuffling of the two boys the next room over.

And, as the smell of egg rolls and sweat overtook him, he fell asleep.

-!-

Brendon woke up to screams. 

At first, he thought they had been broken in on, but then it dawned on him that the screams were words- and they were emitting from Ryan's mouth.

"How could you be so  _goddamn_ irresponsible!"

This was a good question, as the apartment now reeked of weed and cheap plum liquor and of Brent Wilson's irresponsibilities. 

"It won't happen again." 

The response was dull and slurred.

"We've been here for  _five fucking days_ and you've already  _fucked up!_  It better not!"

"This wasn't an issue when Brendon skipped practice!"

"We weren't fucking signed then! And he couldn't fucking help it!"

"Well, maybe he should've got his ass kicked out before then!" 

There was a loud clatter. 

"What the fuck! What the fucking hell? How could you be so goddamn  _idiotic!_ He's your friend! And your  _motherfucking_ bandmate!"

There was a soft interjection from Spencer that was instantly cut off.

"And he-"

"Where the fuck were you?"

"If you two stopped riding his fucking dick for a moment you'd find out!"  
There was a beat of silence. 

"Just because we're  _decent fucking human beings_ doesn't mean we're riding his fucking dick." 

Spencer was scary when he got angry, scary when he was quiet. 

"We look out for him because we care for him."

"Spenc-"

"Get out." 

His voice was gruff and angry, and you could hear footsteps.

"Brent? Studio. Five am."

Brendon shoved his pillow over his head and pretended he hadn't heard a thing. 

-!-

-!-

-!-

Finally, A Fever You Can't Sweat Out was finished within four weeks.

Brent played bass for nine days. 

Every night was the same. 

One of them would take the position, either Spencer, Ryan, or Brendon, and be prepared to cuss him out when he got back.

"I'd be there in the morning." He'd say.

He never was.

Now, no matter how many times Ryan ranted to Pete over the phone about him, the answer was the same.

_Wait until the albums finished, kick him outta the band. Now, I got to go, I'm doing some work with MyChem._

They couldn't kick him out though, not Brent. Not Brent, who'd been with them since the beginning. It didn't matter how many Maryland college girls he fucked, or how drunk or wasted he was, that wouldn't change that fact.

Panic was a kin, and Brent was part of the family. 

Ryan would scoff, then leave Pete to his work with MyChem or his band or to yell for Patrick to bring him a beer.

He wanted to ram his head into a wall. 

Nevertheless, the album was finished. Thirteen gorgeous songs pulled from the depths of Ryan's mind, barely refurbished to their heightened glory. Though they were embellished with Ryan or Brendon's shitty bass playing, they couldn't deny the fact that it was  _perfect._

On the last day, they couldn't help but to sit all grudges aside and eat the cake Pete had sent them, relishing in their last day in Where-The-Fuck, Maryland.  

That's the second time it happened.

Brendon was leaving the flat on his way to go get coffee when there was a knock on the door, a simple crisp noise that permeated the empty apartment. 

It had happened once before. 

He peered through the peephole, his eyes drinking in the woman standing there. She had a cream-colored cardigan draped over her dark top, her skirt coming down to her ankles.

And there, clutched in her hands, was a copy of The Book Of Mormon.

 His esophagus curled in his throat and he snapped the peephole closed, sliding down the back of the door.

Fuck.

Not again.

He decided to curse silently and force his tears back in his eyes before standing again and opening the door.

"Hello, are you Brendon Boyd Urie? I'm Alma, from the Maryland Church of the Latter Day-"

He was getting solid deja vu from last time.

_"Hi, I'm Aaron, from the Maryland Church Of The Latter Day Saints. Are you Brendon Boyd Urie?"_

_"Um, yes."_

_"We missed you at service on Sunday. Your address was here on our list and I came in to see if you needed any," His eyes raked Brendon's disheveled form. "spiritual guidance."_

"No, Alma, I'm sorry. I'm not him." 

A look of confusion flickered over her face before checking something tucked in her bible.

"But my list says-"

"Um, I'm Ryan. I can pass it on to him, though." 

His lie flew from his lips easily. 

"Oh! Well, Ryan, have you ever been interested in joining the-"

"I have to go."

"Oh, well do us a favor and pass this on to him-" She shoved the bible into his hands before flashing a practiced smile. 

"And may Jesus be-"

"Jesus be with you. I know." Brendon completed it without thinking. 

He slammed the door, his coffee forgotten.

Because she had left something tucked in the bible.

A sheet, fresh from printer ink, with his photo clipped to the top.

_Brendon Boyd Urie_

it said.

_Apt. 1266 West 3rd Street._

And there, under it.

Ryan's address.

Then Spencer's.

Then, even in slightly smudged ink, Brent's.

And then, in bold on the bottom, descriptions.

They were following him.

Then, the revolutionary thought penetrated his skull and trickled down to his heart.

He could never escape.

 


	9. The Bus

The day was heavy, and smelled of travel. They were finally leaving Maryland in a bus Pete had hooked them up with, and they were done. 

Pete had had them play three shows in the area, and they already loved them, tripping over themselves to get to them, needing their voices and the idea of their warm touch. But, nevertheless, more importantly...

They were  _done_ with the  _album._

Damn, that felt good to say.

Still, though the bus seats reeked of what was almost-airplane and they were going home, something was off.

Brent and Spencer were asleep in the back, but Ryan had seldom moved. He had set his phone aside and was now staring at Brendon, who, dead silent, was on the couch across from him.

The raindrops outside reflected in his eyes, and his tongue was swollen with lack of words.

Ryan raised his face, looking at the boy in front of him. His feet were tucked in, folding in on himself.

"Brendon, talk to me. What's wrong."

Ryan lined his eyes up with the top of Brendon's head, as his face was in his hands and there was nothing else to look at.

"Nothing's wrong, Ryan."

"Brendon-"

"I said nothing 's wrong, goddamnit!" Brendon raised his head out of his hands, his eyes visibly red, his voice repressing the blossoming tears.

"Talk to me."

Ryan didn't expect him to. He expected him to tell him to fuck off, it wasn't his business, it was stress, he'd smoke and be fine.

What he didn't expect was-

"Ry, they're following me."

"What?"

Ryan didn't mean the sharpness in his tone. He didn't mean it abruptly, and once the words left his mouth he didn't mean for them to cut through the air.

"The missionaries."

The base of Ryan's ankle tingles, sending a shiver up his legs.  _Missionaries?_

"Why," said Ryan, choosing his words carefully, making sure that the syllables he chose didn't cause the boy in front of him to clam up and cut himself off. "Are they following you?"

"Because they think I'm gonna leave. Because they're against rock, and liquor, and weed, and gays, and morning coffee, and the idea of me dressing up and swearing and going on stage and, when I walk off of it, they're against the dirty thoughts that the girls whisper into my ears." Once Ryan had asked, he might as well have broken down the flood wall, because the water came pouring out, matching the steady flow of droplets outside.

"And they know they left me Ryan. Ry, they know they kicked me out and they know I'm weak and they'll come after me and Ry,  _Ry please, I don't know what to do."_

Ryan had never seen another boy cry. A boy his age. 

He had never experienced the moment when he said it and his voice broke and the tears come pouring down, and they slid down his perfect cheeks and then,  _oh god,_ and then-

_Ry, please, I don't know what to do._

Ryan was pretty sure he could feel his heart break. That must've been what it was, because he felt a splitting feeling in his own chest and then he, too, had the undeniable urge to cry, or punch somebody, or  _do something_ to make it stop.

Brendon must've felt pathetic. Curled up, alone, sobbing, and there Ryan was, sitting  _like an idiot,_ as Brendon consciously wiped away his tears.

Goddamn it, he needed his family. He needed his mom to pull him close and hold him and-

_How fucking dare they leave him?_

Sometimes in life, you decide it's time to make an executive decision. You do it without thinking, you just know what needs to happen next.

And that's why he did it.

"Bren, baby, come here."

The world stopped spinning. Those simple words, those  _four goddamn words._

And then, there it was, Ryan holding out his arms, not even stopping to consider that Brendon might refuse his offer.

Brendon looked up.

He met his eyes.

"Wha-"

"Brendon." Ryan said, a bit more forcefully. " _Brendon, baby, come here."_

That was all it took. Brendon stood up, maneuvered his way around the coffee table, and collapsed on Ryan's lap.

"Shhhh. Shhh. Baby, it's okay. It's okay."

_How fucking dare they do that to his Brendon._

It was awkward, and, as Brendon was barely smaller than Ryan, he had to pull his knees up quite far to fit into his lap.

But he did.

He pressed his face deep into Ryan's shoulder, not even stopping to inhale Ryan's scent. Ryan could feel the tears soaking through his shirt, and, as he didn't know what to do with the rest of his body, he wrapped his arms around Brendon and buried his nose in his hair.

"Shhhhh. Shhhhh. It's okay."

_"Ryan. Ryan pleas-"_

"Don't talk. Don't talk, Bren. It's gonna be okay. Just breathe Don't talk."

Ryan pressed his lips to the top of Brendon's head, murmuring and rubbing his back.

"Brendon."

"What is it?" He said, his voice trembling.

"Can I tell you something? You have to promise not to be mad."

There was a sniff from somewhere deep in Ryan's shoulder, then -

_"Okay, Ry."_

"Brendon." 

Brendon pulled his head away, looking at Ryan. He pulled away just enough to be able to see his face, his lips as he formed the words, forgetting that he was sitting entangled in his lap.

"Brendon, you have to leave the church."

There was a long, shaky, choked out sob. As Ryan studied him, he could see him shaking ever so slightly, and when the words came out, he sounded like a meek little boy.

_"I know, Ry."_

There was a pause, just long enough for another tear to leak out.

_"But I'm scared."_

It happened so quickly that Ryan could barely think about it. He could barely think about touching the side of his face, tilting it slightly, and he could barely taste the salty tears sliding over his lips.

So he opened his lips ever-so-slightly and quenched them.

Brendon melted into the kiss, falling into Ryan as the tears slowed.

He focused on the undeniable warmth spreading up in him, the way that his arms felt wrapped around him, and he focused on what happened when it broke.

 _"Brendon."_ Ryan whispered, inches away from his lips.  _"Brendon, I won't let them get you."_

Brendon let out a slight nod before Ryan leaned forward and connected their lips again.

The noise Brendon made conveyed it all - not sin, not romanticism, not lust- 

 

Relief. 

All he could feel as he blended with Ryan was relief, pure, undeniable relief. Like everyone in the entire world was leaning in close to him and saying;  _Brendon Boyd Urie, you are going to be okay._

You.

Are.

Okay.

 

Ryan, however, was not focusing on anything other than his Brendon. He wasn't focusing on the pure impulse that he acted upon, he was focusing upon  _his Brendon._

_His._

_Brendon._

 

Brendon let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a choked sob, and that's when Ryan slightly pulled away.

 

_"Ryan-"_

"Shhhh. Brendon." Ryan moved him off of his lap, his hands wound around his waist.

_"Ryan -"_

"Come here." Ryan pulled him to the couch that Brendon had left moments earlier, falling onto it with less grace than he intended. 

_"Ry-"_

Brendon was cut off as Ryan pulled him towards him again, laying the boy virtually on top of him on the sofa, wrapping his right arm around his waist, using his left to guide his head to his chest.

"Brendon, get some sleep."

Brendon realized that there was nothing he needed more. 

He was emotionally exhausted.

Ryan moved his head down, burying his face in the younger boy's hair once again.

_"Ry. Promise me something?"  
_

Ryan shifted a little, holding him better.

"Yeah?"

_"Promise me you'll never leave me?"_

Ryan thought that that might make him burst into tears in the instant.

_"Even when it's all over. The music, the band - promise me you won't leave me."_

Ryan let a shaky breath into Brendon's hair.

"Brendon, I promise. I'd never dream of it. I'll never leave you, no matter what happens. I won't leave you, and I won't leave anyone in this damn band. But I won't leave you. I'll be here."

_"Always?"_

_"Always."_

The rain outside poured on.


	10. A New Form Of Blasphemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SMUT  
> there will be a summary in the chapter notes at the bottom if you do not wish to read, but I highly suggest you do.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my number one Tumblr Stan, Jillian

SMUT WARNING: THERE WILL BE A CHAPTER SUMMARY AT THE BOTTOM

"He's called a band meeting."

"I'm not going in."

"Jesus, Ryan, stop brooding. What's your problem?"

It was an unlikely face-off, Spencer and Ryan, head to head in the back of the bus. 

"I don't wanna talk about i-"

"Band meeting." 

Spencer seized his wrist and pulled him forward. 

The last thing that George Ryan Ross III wanted was to have to look into Brendon Urie's deep brown eyes. Not after last night. 

His shirt sleeve was still wet from tears.

Brendon was hysterical.

He kissed him to stop him from crying.

Yeah. 

He, disgruntled and confused, was forced to sit down across from the boy.

Brent was picking a hangnail as he leaned against the side, his back pushed against the cold window and hard steel.

"We're about five minutes away from state lines."

"So why'd we stop?"

"I have to tell you all something."

Jesus. 

Here it was.

  _I kissed Ryan last night. Actually, Ryan kissed me. Our mouths moved in a syncopated moment and he gripped my hips as I cried, touching me and comforting me with body. I slept with him on the couch, my back against his chest, his arms around my waist, but when I woke up, the spot under me was cold._

"I'm - I'm leaving the church."

Spencer gagged on his diet coke.

"You're  _whatting_ the  _what?"_

"I'm - I'm leaving the-" 

"Fuck! I'm so proud of you!"  

Ryan, it was easy to say, let his guard down. He wrapped his arms around the smaller boy, lifting him up slightly. He could feel Brendon's heart against his own as he set him down, realizing.

Any touch could lead to brushing of the lips.

"Brendon! My man! I swear, this is great ne-"

Ryan tuned them out. A radio, scanning the stations.

_101.4 - god, he's gorgeous. look at his eyes and his hips and_

_106.2 - don't you want to kiss him and touch him and run your hands down his sides until_

_94.3 - smile, polite. you are proud. you are calm_

Ryan listened to the latter. 

You are proud.

You are calm. 

"It'll- It'll be hard. I need a place to stay, and it'll take ages. They have these records, you see-"

Ryan zoned out again.

_What about that pretty girl on your livejournal? She's been hitting on you. You could take her ou-_

"You can live with me, man. Don't worry."

Checkmate, Spencer.

Ryan had no idea that he  _didn't_ want him to stay with anyone else, and he  _didn't_ want to think that was jealousy. But, still. The idea. Brendon, in another man's room. Not man. Friend. Whatever. What-the-fucking-ever.

"I can do it. Since I dropped out of school I'll have the space. I finally got my own place."

Where the  _fuck_ did that come from?

It came out of his mouth too easily, almost as easy as Brendon's face lit up.

"Really?"

Fuck.

_No, no no. You can't. I can't have you around, I can't have the idea of you on my body and lips and skin and on my furniture. No. No. No. Not really. Live with Spe-_

"Yeah." 

Fuck. Fuck you, Ryan Ross's brain. You don't know how to work, or to show restraint or to.

The girl on Livejournal.

Yeah. 

What was her name? Jess? Jaya? 

Simple.

Get a girlfriend, Brendon will step off. 

It didn't help the fact that the two stole a glance as they exited the room.

-!-

-!-

-!-

Ryan Ross's apartment was two things;

shitty, and meant for one person. 

Now, Ryan was starting to find, his life consisted of two constants:

Shitty, and clearly meant for two.

But there was no way in hell he was letting another boy be that person. 

"Ryan?"

Shit. Here it comes.

They stood in the center of his doorway, peering in at the tiny flat.

"Yes?"

"Um. Can I- Can I have a hug?"

Fuck.

Ryan could already tell this wasn't going to work.

Because there- there was Brendon, his bus-clothes hanging off his skin, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. When he turned to look at him, the pupils of his dark doe-eyes widened slightly, and he fidgeted with a leather bracelet on his wrist when he asked.

Shake your head.

Say no.

Ryan gave him a soft smile and enveloped him in his arms, wrapping them around the younger. His cologne and sweat mingled with their raging hormones, and he tucked his chin to the top of Brendon's head. 

Then, it occurred to him.

Nobody could see them.

Nobody would know, except  _for them._

And they already - they already kissed.

They already knew.

And so, when he let go, he shut the door behind them. 

"Thanks, Ry, I really appreciate thi-" 

He was cut off as Ryan's fingers shoved their way into his hair, pulling him forward to meet his mouth. Needy and lustful, he worked his tongue inside, Brendon's short gasp being cut off as his left hand traveled to his waist. 

"Ryan-"

This took Ryan by surprise. Not his name, but the way  _he said it._ Breathy and dark, filled like a melting pot with need and hunger. 

He lifted Brendon and sat him on the kitchen counter, allowing him to spread his legs so that he could step inside. 

This was happening fast.

Too fast.

And Ryan  _loved it._

Brendon, still seated on the kitchen counter, wrapped his legs around Ryan's waist and pulled him in, allowing Ryan to dive in for another heated kiss.

It took a single moan from the younger before Ryan's fingers were on the top button, undoing it hurriedly. 

What would this take?

The answer was four - four buttons undone before Ryan's mouth was on his neck, tongue dragging down to suck on his Adam's apple. 

"Ry- _Ryan, Jesus."_

This was so goddamn wrong.

They both knew it.

They both knew it as Ryan's hands slipped in between his legs, applying a slight pressure before moving his lips upward again.

He left a shiny trail of saliva up and down his throat before biting down on the lower lip, pulling it out slightly before moving to sit on the kitchen counter against him.

For Brendon, the boy previously in between his legs was now sitting on his lap, and was quite vigorously palming him through his jeans. 

See, this was not something that Ryan Ross expected to do at all, let alone with his best friend on his new apartment's kitchen counter. There was never a time in his life before where he  _realized_ how nice it was to feel another person's erection, let alone at the mercy of his fingertips.

Was it worth shedding the pants?  
Because, you see, after the pants lay askew on the floor, there are only the boxers, and the boxers are the last form of protection for what is under. 

Because, though he was touching it and feeling it and grabbing it, Ryan Ross was not ready to accept the fact the Brendon Urie was not a woman.

And so, we come to the part where we left off, with Brendon on his back against a countertop, a seemingly heterosexual guitarist over him with a hand between his thighs. 

And they were both loving it. 

Because, you see, for the next week, Brendon would be alone at Ryan's apartment. Then, the band would meet up,  _oh, shit, the band, Ryan forgot about that._

And, while Ryan was busy remembering about the band, he forgot one thing.

Brendon was rather competitive with him, and he probably didn't enjoy being palmed on a kitchen counter with no involvement from himself.

And that's why, right as Ryan was about to break away, Brendon reached up and grabbed his hips, guiding them slightly towards his own.

_Shit._

_Fucking hell._

No matter how goddamn bad this was, it didn't change the fact that it felt pretty goddamn good. Because, right as Brendon managed to reach for his hips, Ryan finally decided to stop being such a fucking  _pussy_ and slip his hands under his jeans.

They didn't just go under his jeans.

And now, it had evolved, from just palming to a full-on handjob on marble. 

Now, this is the part where you can tell Ryan hadn't had sex in a while, because he forgot the whole  _moaning_ part.

And, dear god, could the boy under him moan.

It was a sinful, rippling sound. It tore the air in between them, and it forced him to grind his head back onto the countertop. 

And that was what threw Ryan over the edge.

In his last leap of faith, he twisted with a steady movement of his hands, brushing a fingertip over his slit, allowing the boy under him to collapse with pleasure as he shifted his hand by the rippling skin. 

Fuck.

As Brendon relaxed, so did Ryan, and he too stopped bothering to hold his body up. His head hit Brendon's bare stomach, listening to him breathe, before he slid his hand out from under the thin fabric, his palm coated in another boy's substance.

"Fuck."

He sighed, shifting upwards to give him a lazy kiss, acting like what just happened didn't turn him on as damn well as he knew it did.

"Ry- just, fuck."

"Hey, Bren. Go on to bed."

"Ry, are you-"

"Slip into mine. I'll be in in a second."

Brendon nodded, a sly smile on his face as he slid off the countertop onto the floor.

And then, once he was alone-   
Ryan Ross moved over to the computer in the corner, logging into a website he knew too well.

 _Hey, Jac._ He typed, his fingers sticky and shaking.  _How about I take you up on that offer?_

He paused.

It was mere seconds before he got a notification.

_Jac Vanek has sent a message to your inbox._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:  
> Brendon announces he's leaving the church.  
> Ryan is jealous when Spencer offers him refuge, and Ryan lets Brendon move in with him temporarily.  
> Ryan gives Brendon a handjob on his kitchen counter.  
> After Brendon goes to bed, Ryan messages Jac Vanek.


	11. A Picturesque Score Of Passing Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild nsfw, i guess. also, look at me, posting two days in a row!

Ryan awoke with a feeling similar to a post-one-night stand. 

Except, instead of opening your eyes nude and next to a stranger, he opened them with the outstanding view of his best friend pantsless and in Ryan's t-shirt.

It hung over his body, the hem skimming past what looked like Ryan's boxers as well. One of his arms wound around the elder's waist, the other curved peacefully against his warm chest. 

Ryan, who was staring at the ceiling, trying not to focus, ignored the heavy feeling seeping in his pores.

Then, in a final movement, he turned.

There, inches from his face, was a picturesque view of an angel. 

The light caught on his eyelashes, dancing over his sleeping form. In an unconscious move, one he didn't really think about, he slipped his hand under Brendon's shirt, his fingertips ghosting over a slightly toned abdomen before wrapping around him. 

He was now mere centimeters from his face, and, in Brendon's slumber, he allowed himself to drink it in. 

He, in a scared-puppy movement, reached his guitar-calloused fingertips towards Brendon's cheek, sliding them down slowly. 

He met their lips, soft and slow, moving his own against the smaller boy's until he awoke enough to respond back.

And there, in light of easy morning, Ryan rolled over on top of him, bending to his touch. First, it was just the flesh of lips - then a slight tongue. Then, Brendon's hands, guiding his hips towards his body. Rolling himself in towards him, fitting in like a puzzle piece, he threaded his hands through his hair, his fingers grasping at the dark strands. Using it to form a strong grip, Ryan pushed his head back into the mattress, his lips playing down Brendon's neck, finding a spot to latch on. The smaller arched his head back even more as Ryan left a mark, their bodies shrouded in white sheets as he moaned backward into the pillow. 

"Ryan,  _god-"_

It was so easy, like putty in his fingertips, the way that his tongue swirled around the hickey that he had just left. 

"Fuck you. God-"

That was the only way to describe it- easy.

Easy the way that he was too close- it was too hidden - it was too simple to reach and touch. 

And what do you do when things are too easy?

It means you call Pete Wentz.

So, as Ryan pulled away with murmurs of  _'I need a shower, hold on',_ they both parted with the same mission.

Ryan slammed the bathroom door, throwing his back against it, gasping in short hurried breaths.

Fuck.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He was not doing this.

Not gay.

Not gay.

Not gay.

_"Let me put you on hold."_

These were the words that Brendon Boyd Urie was currently hearing, as, directly after the "Hey, Brendon, what's up?" Pete had seemingly gotten another call and put their conversation on pause. 

"Pete, uh, can I talk to you? It's about Bren-"

"Hold on."

There was the hold tone, and then;

"Okay, Bren, I'm back. what happened?" 

"Ryan- uh- okay, so remember the thing I told you?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Well, he uh, kissed me."

"Holy shi-"

"And we like, maybe had, um,"

There was a clatter on the line, a pause of, ' _shut up!'_ then a-

"Holy shit, he fucked you?"

"No! I mean- uh, who else is there?"

Pause.

"Just- just Mikey."   
There was a relaxed motion from Brendon's end. 

"Ah, well, um, he didn't fuck me exactly, but like, kinda?"

"Fuck! Hold up!"

There was a muffled noise from the other man on the line, something that sounded like ' _god Pete, this is about to get good'_

Then- Brendon was put on hold.

"Hey, Ryan, what's up?"

Pete spoke as casually as humanly possible, right before elbowing the man in the ribs who happened to be sitting next to him.

"Pete, I'm having a - having a bit of a crisis."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

There was a heavy shudder from Ryan.

"Can you keep a secret?" 

He was whispering possibly as quiet as a human could, pressing his phone into the side of his cheek.

"Sure thing."

There was a sharp intake of breath.

"Then, um, Brendon and I-"

His voice caught in his throat, turning ragged and anxious.

"Kissed." 

As he said it, a sharp pain shot through his body, and he felt like he would throw up. 

"Oh."

A longer pause.

"Is that all?"

Ryan shook his head, before realizing that he still had to speak.

"No." 

He felt blasphemous for admitting it, ugly and disgusting for uttering the words.

"We, uh, had a fling." 

"How?"

"I, uh-"

"Jerked him off?" Pete interrupted. Ryan's cheeks flushed, and he considered hanging up.

"Y-yeah."

"Oh. That all."

"Wha? Yeah."

There was a soft snort.

"Oh. Just don't tell, don't want this messing up your band. Anyways, got to go. And, Ryan? Take a hot shower." 

The call ended.

And Ryan felt worse than ever.

-!-

-!-

"So, kid, what happened?" Now, it was Mikey, speaking into the phone over Pete's shoulder.

"Uh, um, he kinda, y'know."

"Palmed you? Jerked you off? Come on, kid, there are multiple options here." 

"Yes."

"To which?"

There was a nervous shuffling noise, then.

"All."

Mikey snorted, causing Pete to push him away. 

"Well, it sounds like you're doing pretty well, Brendon. So, what's wrong?"

In all honesty, Brendon didn't  _know._

"Where is he now?"

"Shower."

There was a long pause.

"Join him, kid."

There was a long breath.

"You don't know how long this will last."

.

.

.

"Ryan?"

His voice, small and meek, filled the tiled room. The steam curled from around the shower curtain, begging for another body to wind around.

There was a small noise from behind the fabric.

"Bren?"

Brendon swallowed the lump in his throat, and in an easy motion, he pulled the shower curtain back.

_God._

_Jesus fucking Christ._

_God._

There he stood, heated water running over his body, dripping and sliding until it curled past the rim of the bathtub.

Pause.

"Get in, you fucking idiot."

His words caught in his esophagus, Brendon nodded slowly. Turning to face away from Ryan's gaze, he slipped off his t-shirt. Then, when he was sure that Ryan had allowed himself to watch, he shed his boxers and stepped in after him.

Ryan took his hand, lest he slipped, and steadied his waist on the bottom of the shower. The water was scorching, sliding down his body, curling around Brendon's hips and switching to move across Ryan's. 

 Fuck.

There they were, two men, their hands and wrists and bodies pressed together, not fucking, not kissing, just touching.

"Brendon."

It came out breathless and easy, his fingers reaching towards his cheeks. 

Then, exactly how he didn't want it to go, he was murmuring the truth against Brendon's lips.

"There's something I have to tell you."

A pause, a hitch of breath.

_Don't do it._

_Don't do it._

"I have a date tomorrow."

 

 

 

 


	12. Affairs and Etcetera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More petekey, prior to your requests, and a chapter that I slaved through and took me like six hours to get through.  
> Hope you enjoy :)

The heavy noise reverberated through the apartment, startling the two men apart as they kissed on the couch. As the buzzer's sound trickled through the floorboards, Pete Wentz pulled himself away from the boy underneath him, shifting his legs that were currently wound around his waist. 

He had moved out of his temporary flat in Los Angeles and was not back in Las Vegas, as the rental he had there was no longer... needed. 

What was  _definitely_ not needed though, he thought with distaste, was an  _interruption,_ as he was enjoying his place in Mikey Way's lap very much.

This, this was something that no one in his life could see coming. Pete Wentz, in a  _domestic_ relationship? Pah! He was the last person in the world that they would expect to cook breakfast for his lover, or to send lovey-dovey phone calls, or, and this was the most surprising,  _ignore tour rules._

Tour rules were simple. If you did 'em on tour, it doesn't count. 

But, when Pete was with Mikey Way, nobody got done on tour, except for the shows that Mikey snuck away for. 

When Mikey was on tour, it was slightly different. And now, Mikey was on tour, but Mikey had flown here. 

And now, the buzzer was going off.

Four times in a row.

"Who is it?"   

Pete shrugged, before leaning in to connect lips and tongues and etcetera, except, now, for the fifth time, the doorbell rang again.

"If that's Gerard, I swear."

Pete pushed himself, rather clumsily, off of Mikey's lap, stumbling over to the door. With a moment of warning to the man stretched out on the couch, he pressed  _talk._

"Hello? I'm in a meeting right now, who is it?"

"There was a fuck up. Let me up."

"Oh, um, what're you doing he-"

"I said lemme in, boss."

Mikey cocked his head, turning to mouth to Pete.

_"What's the kid doing here?"_

Pete shrugged.

He pressed  _unlock._

There was the drilling sound of the lobby door and the mic, before the sound cut out. Pete, who was still standing at the speaker, tilted his head back.

_"I'm sorry."_

Mikey rolled his eyes before getting off the couch, shifting to stand behind him and grip his hips.

"I thought I said I didn't want kids." 

He dipped his head down, touching their lips as he turned Pete around and drove his hands into the tender parts of his skin.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

They pulled apart, and, after a quick glance in each other's eyes and a silent promise, Mikey retreated to the kitchen.

With a slight intake of breath, Pete pulled the door open and set his gaze on the boy in front of him. 

His dark hair was still wet from the shower, plastering his fringe to his forehead. The shirt he was wearing was far from his own, and his pants hung low on his hips. Confusion was etched into his skin, running into his bones.

"Hey, kid."

For somebody who was so adamant about coming in, he seemed generally perplexed that he made it this far. 

"Kid?"

Brendon Urie raised his gaze from the floor, coming in contact with Pete's concern. 

"Can I stay here?"

At this, Mikey stuck his head out of the kitchen, his white-rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, a frying pan in his hand.

"Hi, Mr. Way." 

Brendon suddenly seemed too big for his body, his clothes trying to swallow him up as he avoided Mikey's eye contact. 

"Just call me Mikey. You're..."

He trailed off, not wanting to mistake Brendon for Ryan or vice-versa.

"Um, I'm Brendon. Brendon - Urie. Yeah."

There was a long, awkward pause, and it was only then when it dawned on him that he had only met Pete Wentz a couple of times before, let alone Mikey Way.

"You want some eggs, Brandon?"

"It's, uh, Brendon."

"Right. Sorry."

Mikey disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving the two of them to whatever it was that was about to happen.

"Uh, Brendon, come sit down." 

As Brendon shifted towards the couch, his backpack slung over his shoulder, Pete realized that he was only wearing Mikey's shirt, which hung low on his body, and his boxers.

He picked a pair of basketball shorts off a stack of CDs and pulled them on, shooting Brendon an incomprehensible look as he settled himself.

"So, what happened?"

Brendon fidgeted with his fingers on the table, and Pete couldn't help but notice that he sat in the same spot Mikey had previously, overtaking the area of couch cushion that had belonged to the Way brother.

"It's kinda - embarrassing."

"Aw, come on, kid."

He allowed his gaze to soften, trying to connect with the younger boy.

"Nothing surprises me anymore."

-!-

It was clear that Mikey Way did not know how to behave in public, because he had never touched Pete less than in the moments that they were on display. 

And, for goodness sakes, it was  _just Brendon._

"Hold up, he did  _what?"_

This part of the story caused Mikey to lean over the back of the chair Pete was in and stare at Brendon incredulously.

"We were in the shower." He said again, slower this time. "And he had his hands on my hips and his breath, like, on my neck, and he was about to kiss me, and then he said-"

Pete leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the table and completing the sentence for him, drawn out and disbelieving.

"I have a date tonight."

Brendon nodded, his eyes getting slightly watery. 

Mikey scoffed behind him at this. 

"Nah, that's bullshit. Don't be letting him play you like that. He ain't worth it if-"

"Well, hold on, now." 

Pete cut Mikey off, folding his hands on his lap.

"It's possible he's just confused. He's probably never done this before, and he doesn't know how to handle it. Just, maybe, give him a bit."

At this, Mikey leaned closer to Pete's ear. 

_"Pete, you're projecting."_

At this, Pete laughed, opening his mouth to bite back.

"I'm just repeating what Frank told me about you, jackass."

"You asked Frank about m-"

Mikey's response was cut off by Brendon's attempt to turn the conversation back to him. 

"And I don't know what I did! I mean I didn't do anything weird at least I think I didn't and I just wanted him and, Pete, I swear to god, all I ever did was want him."

Brendon had now broken down into a fit of embarrassingly hot tears that slid down his cheeks, and he tried to self consciously wipe them away.

Pete pretended that he didn't see as Brendon composed himself, and he could feel Mikey's nails digging into his shoulders as he internally begged him to comfort the child.

But, the thing was, this was rock, and they were performers, and they had no place for feelings.

"Sure, kid, you can crash here. Mikey leaves tomorrow, so there's room."

And then, because they had at least a shroud of decency, Pete got Mikey a hotel and they did their standard pre-departure fuck, long and hard, and Pete arrived back at the flat at six forty-three in the morning, just in time to put cereal out for Brendon.

And it was normal.

But it was certainly not good.

Because, what affair is?


	13. Hooded Hallways and Spotlight Sensuality

"Alright, kid. Let's go." 

Pete grabbed his bag off the kitchen table before tossing a piece of paper at Brendon's head.

"God, kid! Don't be nervous. It's just a release party!"

Brendon fidgeted with his tie before stealing a glance to Pete.

"But  _he'll_ be there."

"Yeah, no shit! He's your guitarist!"

At this, Pete kicked his door open in a less-than-gentlemanly attempt to hold it ajar for Brendon, who followed, fingers playing over the dog tag he had yet to remove. 

"But he's-"

"Gonna be as conflicted as you are?"

Brendon let out what could only be explained as a long, drawn-out teenager eye-roll before shuffling after him.

Stuffy hotels and gay love affairs.

All wrapped out into one.

Great.

 

-!-

-!-

-!-

 

They entered the hotel together for the release party, Pete exchanging a slight nod with Ryan as they entered.

He had a girl on his arm, a platinum blonde.

Brendon bit his lip.

There were smiles and pats on the back, and, though it was hard in a twenty-person room tops, Brendon and Ryan ignored each other. 

Ryan tried not to.

Brendon did.

No matter how many times Ryan tried to talk to him, he had snaked through the crowd, away for another champagne-glass click and faux laugh. There was an executive or two, and the man who helped record in Maryland. 

There was a smile.

A laugh.

A nod.

"Yes, livejournal! Crazy, isn't it?"

"I'd love to do one with RockSound!"

"But of course!"

And then, it was too overwhelming, and Brendon had to take a break.

He snuck down the back hallway, moving to get a breath of air out the back of the hotel. 

Ryan, his eyes trained on his back, decided to follow, handing the girl on his arm his glass and excusing himself for the restroom. 

"Brendon!  _Brendon, stop ignoring me!"_

Brendon paused, his hand on the door handle, ready to flee. 

He sighed.

"Who is she, Ryan?" He asked, resignation sewn into his voice and glued to his lips. He removed his hand from the cold metal and turned towards the elder boy, exhaustion on his eyebrows and aging his cheeks. 

" _What?"_

"The girl. What's her name?"

This was a standoff, a duel in an eighties-carpet hotel hall, the door bolting them in.

"Jac."

"Just Jac?"

"Vanek. Jac Vanek."

Brendon paused, watching the incomprehensible emotion flicker over Ryan's eyes.

"Congratulations."

He turned back towards the door.

"Brendon! Talk to me!"

He whipped around again, taking a cautious step towards the boy, leaving the cool-metal safe haven unattended.

"What do you want me to say, Ryan?" His voice cracked at this, sending a quick cascade of broken tears down his cheeks.

"Congrats! Okay? Congratulations! Congratulations for  _using_ me and  _playing_ me and making me  _think_ that, of all people, I could trust  _you!_  Congratulations for that!"

Ryan hated it when Brendon cried, and he certainly was right now. It was a mix of angry tears and humiliation, skirting on the edge of a end-of-high-school breakup. 

"Brendon, come on, I didn't-"

"Just shut up! Okay! It's not my fault you're too  _fragile_ in your  _masculinity_ to recognize the fact that  _maybe_ , just  _maybe,_ you liked what was going on? So you had to go and get little pretty platinum blonde to hang on your arm to deny it?"

"Brendon, stop." His voice was low and slow, edging him to stop talking.

"That's all she is! A defense mechanism! So that you don't have to deal with the fact that you're ga-"

And then, in a single angry movement, Brendon was pinned up against a wall, Ryan's hands digging into the front of his shoulders.

"Shut. Up." He growled through gritted teeth, forcing his command down Brendon's throat.

However, Brendon stared right back, an equal amount of fury reflective on his own face. He leaned forward, inches away from Ryan's mouth, and, his voice deep and angry, he growled back.

"Fucking make me, then."

With this, Ryan's grip released, causing him to grab Brendon's hands and push his wrists above his head and dig them into the wall behind him. His mouth, in a conflicted movement,  attacked his lips with his own. 

"Get- get off! How am I supposed to trust you!" Brendon pushed him back, throwing him against the opposite wall a little. 

"You aren't."

With this, Brendon paused, the feeling of regret seeping into his toes. It ate him from the inside, but, as the regret reached his tongue, he swallowed it back down. 

"Ec-fucking-zactly." 

He turned to leave, whipping his head away from Ryan's gaze.

"Bren, it's not a bi-"

"Don't call me that!" His voice broke, a heavy sob piercing his words. Ryan reached forward, attempting to brush the hot tears off of his cheeks. However, Brendon flinched away from his touch, flatting himself against the wall in an attempt to get away from his contact. At this, Ryan bit his lip, trying to not let a little bit of despair leak out.

"Brendon, don't-"

The hallway was suddenly filled with the sound of clacking heels, the sound reverberating against the hotel doors. 

"Ryan, is everything okay?"

Ryan's fingers twitched a little, hovering over Brendon's forearm as Jac Vanek made her way towards them. 

"Yeah, Jaccy, everything's fine." 

Brendon sniffled before wiping his eyes on his wrist, ignoring his watery voice. Humiliated and angry, he turned to look away as Ryan wound his arms around her waist and forced a kiss on the blonde's lips. 

He fixated on some dust in the corner, wishing he was anywhere except some adjacent hallway to a cleared out ballroom. 

His face flushed, as the too-long kiss finally ended. 

"Give me a min, babe. I'll meet you back in there."

Jac smiled at him, her bleached teeth flashing towards the two boys.

"Hi, I'm Jac. Are you Brendon?"

Brendon nodded, digging his teeth into his lips to keep from letting anything accidental spill out. 

She gripped his wrist in an awkward handshake, giving him a glare that only he could catch. At this, she turned, gave Ryan a quick kiss on the cheek, and click-clacked back down to the ballroom. 

"Okay, Bren, I can see where that went wro-" 

Brendon shoved him into a wall as he pushed past, storming into the room after Jac. He was met immediately by Pete, stationed by the doorway, who then wrapped an arm around his neck.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

He forced his feelings deep inside, faking a smile as Pete steered him into the center of the room.

Though the situation was plagued with distrust and angst, Brendon had to admit that Pete had made an effort for them. The room was hooded in dark, and the stacks of albums in the corner reached six feet. It was unimaginable that it was a hotel after all, and, had the hallway encounter not happened, Brendon would be able to believe that this other world was different than that outside, created just for them.  

"'Ave you met my bandmates? This is-" Brendon allowed himself to focus on a shining copy of one of his CD's in the corner, tuning out what was happening around him as Pete introduced him to person after person. He ignored Ryan, who had re-entered, once, twice, three times, his face still flushed from the earlier interaction.

"Hey, is everything alright?"

Brendon focused on the man in front of him, Pete's lead singer, Patrick.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"You sure? You don't seem-"

The lights flashed on and off, calling them to the stage. Patrick placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder as Pete pulled him away, dragging him to the front of the room.

"You're performing. Come on." 

He allowed the stage-high to take him over as, for his now fourth show in existence, they launched into Lying.

_"She didn't deserve you, Ry."_

_"She fucking cheated!"_

_"I know. And I'm sorry."_

_"It's bullshit! I bet she still moans my name when he's fucking her, because that's how goddamn. good. I. was."_

_Brendon bounced his pen on the notepad, their songwriting session a bust as Ryan complained about Nikki again._

_"Yes, I'm sure."_

_"It's bullshit!"_

_"Ryan." He paused, snapping his head up from the ground to look at Brendon. "You don't deserve her. You're going to do so. Much. More. You're going to write the soundtrack to her sex, and she's going to wish it was you."_

_"Yeah?" He asked, his voice breaking a little._

_"Yeah. Come here, man."_

_He wrapped him in a hug, holding him close._

_"Don't worry about it, man. She didn't deserve you."_

His head snapped up, launching into the chorus, ignoring the air that prickled over his skin where Ryan stood, playing. They were in their heads, this was clear. 

The song ended, and, on the last chord, Brendon turned to look in Ryan's eyes.

He melted.

_Hold_

_A_

_Lover_

_Close_

The lights shut off again as they flew together, connecting themselves where nobody could see. For a single second, they couldn't see anything except for those inches away from each other. 

And they were close.

They broke away as the stage ignited with the heat of the spotlight.

A new era had begun. 


	14. END OF PART ONE

Congratulations, my dears, for you have now surpassed Part One.

 

We now go onward with our story, our tongues sharp and our thoughts muddled, as we follow what must last ages.

 

For this, I leave you with a quote from As You Like It;

 

They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together; clubs  
cannot part them.

 

Thank you for reading, and to Part Two we go.

 

xx

LadyPseudonym


	15. PART TWO

In which our boys go on tour

 

Pete fucks up

 

Audrey Kitching enters the scene

 

Tears are left

 

In Tour Busses

 

And Bassists

 

Are opinionated

 

And we

 

are formally introduced

 

to Aliyah

 

Weston


	16. The Beauty Of Individuality And Fucked Up Infidelities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's great to see you all again!
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to AnotherSoftEmo and their unnamed friend for the sweet messages, as well as black-roses-grey-skies on Tumblr <3

**_Half of a year later, on a five am morning that smelled of sweat and teenage boy hormones._ **

"Bus. Bus.  _Boys, get on the goddamn bus!"_

"Yes, we know!" Brendon flew by him on the tips of his toes, aimlessly throwing a duffel bag into the compartment.

"I won't be with you! You have to control your  _damn selves!"  
_

"We know, Pete, Jesus!" 

"This is your  _first headlining tou-"_

"Pete! We've played a tour before!"

 _Yes,_ Brendon thought,  _a 24/7 tour that we couldn't breathe on, captured in silent glances and 'I'll touch you laters.'_

"Not headlining! And you arrogant motherfuckers leave  _tomorrow,_ and I won't be at every sho-"

"Pete, Jesus, calm your tits."

Ryan leaned up against the side of the bus, a toothpick clamped in between his lips. While it made some look like some podunk overall-farmer, on Ryan it looked like he hadn't bothered to fuck with cigarettes.

It looked cool.

Or maybe, Brendon was biased.

Just a little. 

"Calm my- calm my- _ugh!"_ He threw his arms in the air in exasperation, causing Ryan to give a slight smirk at the reaction he had elicited. 

Brendon caught his gaze, and shot him a smile.  

They still hadn't figured this whole...  _thing_ out. 

And they were leaving to be confined on a bus for months together,  _tomorrow._

"Where's Brent?" Spencer asked, shoving Brendon into Ryan with an indignant noise.

"Good question."

"Before you asshats figure that out, I need to put out ground rules. Sit."

"On the paveme-"

"Sit."

The three boys sat instantly, tucking their legs under themselves against the gritty road, Ryan brushing off his pants before he sat down.

"Tour rules. Do you know them? Do you understand them?"

"Yes, Pe-" Spencer starts, before being cut off.

"Not the typical ones. The  _good_ ones."

The three boys rolled their eyes so far back in their heads that they could probably see their brains. This only seemed to send Pete into an even deeper frenzy, a frenzy that made them wonder if they only saw him stoned.

"No no no  _no!_ Rule number one. If you fuck them on tour, doesn't count. Your girlfriends don't need to know, and you  _stick up_ for one another! Rule two. You are professionals, now! You exist to  _please._ You please the crowd, you please the label, you please the interviews. Rule three! If there is someone who does not  _fit_ with your professional abilities-" Pete mimed slitting his throat. "They're done." 

This caused Spencer and Ryan to create a shared glance, a bond woven with the thread of lifetime-long friendship.

The hieroglyphics in their hive mind whispered one thing:

_Brent._

They turned back, Ryan knawing on his lip as Spencer got lost, deep in thought.

Brendon tapped his thigh. 

"And, when is Jac coming?"

"For a couple shows in the middle," Ryan said, his voice dull. 

"And when is Audrey coming?"

_Audrey Kitching._

The name rang through the street, lodging its way into Brendon's lip as he bit down, concealing his slight smile. Ryan turned, looking at him with disbelief, his toothpick slipping out of his mouth, and Spencer pushed himself off the pavement, staring at Brendon.

"You didn't tell me you got a  _girl,_ Urie!" 

Spencer threw back his head and laughed, peppering him with question and statements of "you? my little tyke, getting a girl?"

Ryan was in shock. 

It had been over half a year since the Jac Vanek incident had happened, and, granted, they were still together, but Ryan thought that he and Brendon were at least  _okay_. In a little over half a year- God, they had picked their radio hit ( _"Cellos, that'll really fuck them over)_ And they had sold  _ten thousand records_ (to much whooping and cheering from the boys) in their first week.

But Brendon didn't have a girlfriend.

It was at this moment, that the world was turning inside out, that Brent Wilson decided to saunter up, asking what all the hubbub was.

"Oh, you're finally here. Well, I have news for you boys. Wanna give it to them, Scott?"

Their manager, who was standing a ways behind Pete, busy being  _very_ excluded from the conversation, finally stepped forward.

And, Jesus Christ himself, also known as Scott Nagelberg, spoke.

"You boys." He pointed at each of them, in turn, first Brent, then Ryan, then Spencer, finally coming to a rest on Brendon. "Just went Platinum." 

Silence.

Their mouths hung ajar, and Brendon even wiped his eyes a little.

"We did-- we went--  _what?"_

"Platinum." Said Scott, a smile spreading onto his face. "And this brings me to the next issue." 

He gestured to the man behind him, who had since been silent and virtually non-existent, and motioned for him to step forward. 

"Zach Cloud Hall. Introduce yourself."

-!-

-!-

-!-

Brendon Boyd Urie was lying on his back on the carpeted hallway of a tour bus, waiting to wake up.

He had popped a Frank Sinatra CD in the player, and it was blaring.

And he was waiting to wake up.

_Platinum. Platinum. Platinum._

It kept echoing in his brain, reverberating around. 

_Audrey. Audrey. Audrey._

_Platinum. Platinum. Platinum._

He pushed himself up to his knees, crawling over to the console. He pressed eject, and replaced the CD with his own. 

He wanted to listen to it.

Was it really that good, good enough to be  _platinum?_

The introduction started, and Brendon tilted his head so that his forehead met with the speaker.

_Ladies and Gentleman, we proudly present, a picturesque score of passing fantasy._

This was all happening so  _fast._ Silver-then-gold-then-platinum,  _what?_

Then, another intrusive thought,  _was his momma proud of him?_

He could feel a tear squeeze out, shaking from the bass, trembling on his cheek.

The bus door slid open.

"Hey, kid, you okay?"

Zach stepped in, and Brendon slowly pulled himself away from the speaker.

"Yeah." 

"You sure?"

Brendon paused, staring at the speakers with a certain intensity.

"I dunno. Confused."

"That's your job. You're a teenager."

Brendon shifted his gaze to meet Zach's eyes.

"Yeah, but-"

"No 'buts'. This is the time in your life when you're supposed to be figuring things out."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, kid. You're not supposed to know where you're going."

"I  _know_ where I'm going. On tour." 

"That's not what I meant. You're still a kid. You've gotta find yourself."

Zach stood up, brushing himself off as he got out of the passenger's seat, behind Brendon. 

"Hey."

"Yeah, kid?"

"You're kinda smart."

Zach smiled.

"Thanks." 

There was the sound of the bus door sliding and muffled voices before it opened again.

"Zach?"

"Unfortunately, it's me."

Brendon turned, his eyes widening as Ryan stepped in, his lips pursed.

"Can we talk?"

Brendon's heart stopped.

"Y-yeah."

"Um, okay."

Ryan sat down, tucking his legs under himself, lowering himself to Brendon's level on the bus floor.

"So, Audrey."

"So, Jac."

"Touché."

"Brendon, I understand if you don't want to do this anymo-"

Brendon leaned forward, his fingertips caught on Ryan's chin, tilting his lips to meet his in a soft kiss. It was the only one since their first that had not been desperate, and the only one where they were truly allowed to bask in all of its glory. 

This was not a dirty kiss. There was no tongue, no nerves trickling down to intimate places. It was simple and easy, and Brendon crawled forward into Ryan's lap. 

He wound his legs around his waist and kissed, and he kissed and kissed and kissed until the soft silk of the scenario melted away all internal thoughts of  _Audrey Audrey Audrey_ and  _Jac Jac Jac_ and  _Queer Queer Queer_  and  _Sin Sin Sin_ the two of them met, the very fibers of their being intwining on the rough, bus carpet.

All odds were against them.

So they simply shuffled the deck. 

Brendon's fingers moved to touch Ryan's hair, and Ryan gripped Brendon's waist. They kissed and kissed, their lyrics and music melting in simple lips and light movements. They kissed until their hunger melted away, dripping out of their toes and pooling around them like blood on the ground.

They finally broke apart, entranced in their own golden murder scene, and, inches away from each other's lips, Ryan finally breathed the word.

" _Brendon."_

_"Yes, Ryan?"_

_"Will you promise to stay with me?"_

_"Yes, Ryan. Always."_

_"So we can really do this?"_

Brendon smiled, and met his lips again.

-!-

-!-

-!-

Ryan's phone buzzed persistently, and he picked it up, slightly disturbing Brendon, who was curled up against his side, playing with his hair.

"Hey, Jac."

Brendon made a scrunched-up nose face of disgust, and Ryan rolled his eyes at him.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Normal day. How about you?"

Brendon's fingers traveled down, pushing his hair back, and Ryan swatted him away with a look.

"Nah, I was chilling with the guys. Yeah, Platinum. It's great." 

Brendon pressed his face to the side of Ryan's exposed neck, causing a sharp intake of breath from the other boy.

"No, no. Yes, no." 

Brendon kissed lightly on the side of his neck, traveling up. 

"Yeah, yeah. Jac. I, I uh, I'd love to hear about your day."

He shot Brendon a sharp look, and Jac began to speak. Brendon placed a hand over the microphone, muting it. Her voice continued through the tinny speakers as Brendon pressed his lips to Ryan's, kissing him deeply as Ryan's girlfriend continued about her escapades through the phone.

"Ryan?"

Ryan pushed Brendon off with a hurried look.

"Yeah, that sounds great, Jac!" 

"Great! So I can come?"

_Shit._

"Yeah, I'll.... ask.... Pete?"

"Wonderful!"

"Listen, Jaccy, I gotta go."

"Oh. Well, call me when you're on the road?"

"Sure, yeah."

"Love you."

Brendon paused, staring at Ryan, waiting for his response to Jac's words.

"Yeah."

Ryan ended the call. 

It was less than four minutes until he got another, this time from Pete. Brendon put his head back on Ryan's chest, listening to his heart beat as he picked up.

"Ryan."

"Yeah, Pete?"

"I just got an angry call from Brent Wilson."

Brendon furrowed his brow.

"What? Why?"

Pete sighed.

"Apparently-"

Brendon and Ryan shared a glance.

"He saw two of his bandmates kissing in a tour bus."


	17. Ulterior Motives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> MENTION OF CHILD ABUSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter, guys, life's been hitting me hard lately!

"We need to kick Brent out of the band." 

It came, breathless and tripping over itself, out of Brendon's lips as he collapsed over the back of the couch Spencer was sitting on. 

"What?"

"Think about it." Ryan said, tilting over the couch next to Brendon, slightly breathless as well. Brendon was trembling, his entire world falling out from under his feet, and Ryan wrapped an arm around him to steady him. "We're going on tour, he's unreliable, he never shows up. Don't you remember some of the things he's said to us? Did he even help on the album?"

Spencer tilted back, tipping his head over the back of the couch to look at them from upside down. 

"Are you sur-"

Both Brendon and Ryan nodded fervently, Spencer raising an eyebrow. 

And then, Ryan delivered the final blow.

"Don't you remember what Pete said?"

Spencer paused, nodding slightly. Ryan slipped around the couch, sitting next to Spencer.

"Are you, are you sure?" 

  Ryan placed a forefinger on Spencer's wrist, dragging it up and down the way Spencer used to do to calm Ryan down after a particularly bad night with his dad. 

"Yeah, we should." 

Brendon obliged with a solemn nod. 

"Who's gonna do it." 

They both looked at Spencer, who nodded slightly in aggreement.

"Fine. I'll do it."

There was a pause.

"For the good of the band?"

"For the good of the band."

-!-

-!-

-!-

"You are a  _fucking dumbass!"_

"Listen, it had to be do-"

"You go on tour in ONE DAY! One day! How do I find a bassist in one day? How do I do that, Brendon?"

"I-"

A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"When Pete said I could be your band manager, I thought he'd found boys with a  _little common sense!"_

"I'm so-"

"Goddamn."

Zach shot them an apologetic look from the back of the room. 

"Do you know what? I'll see what I can do. I'll find you a bassist! I'll find you a goddamn-"

There was a hand on his knee.

Ryan looked up, following the hand from the wrist to the arm to the shoulder to the neck, until he made eye contact with Spencer Smith.

"You're doing it again." He hissed, pressing his thumb into the top of Ryan's knee.

_The moon shone bright, reflecting through ten-year-old's Ryan's window. He sat, shrunk down on the other side of the door, his dad banging on the other side._

_"Open the goddamn door, George! Open the goddamn door!"_

_Ryan quenched a sob, burying his head into his knees. The door shook on its hinges, the sound of the glass of a whiskey bottle being shattered against it._

_"Get out here, you fucking pussy! What kind of wussy-ass pansy are you?"_

_There was a tap, once, twice on Ryan's window. His tear-stained face looked up, staring through, meeting nine-year-old Spencer Smith's widened eyes._

_'Go away,' he mouthed, waving at the window. Spencer, however, placed his palms against the window and opened it._

_"No! Stay back!"_

_It came out half choked out as the door rattled behind him._

_"Come on."_

_"No!"_

_"Yes!"_

_Ryan turned, looking at the door. In a split second decision, he stood, running towards the window. He stumbled through as the door burst open and Spencer grabbed his wrist, pulling him the rest of the way._

_"You can come to my gramma's." He said, his eyes sparkling slightly. "She makes good cookies."_

_Ryan paused, snatching his hand away._

_"I'm Spencer."_

_There was a pause as they rounded the corner._

_"I'm Ryan."_

_Spencer's age-old pupils met his._

_"And I'm sorry."_

Ryan leaned into Spencer on the couch more, trying to tune back in. Whenever someone started yelling, he fazed out. 

"We'll find a bassist, don't worry." Spencer said, interrupting him. "I can always ask around."

"Ask arou-"

"Yes." Spencer said, a sense of finality in his voice. "Ask around."

Zach pushed past their band manager, offering a hand to Brendon, who was sitting on the floor.

"Alright kids, big day tomorrow. Tuck in.

"But this conversation  _isn't ove-"_

Zach shook his head, motioning for them to leave the bus.  Ryan got up off Spencer, pushing Brendon's shoulder a little, dropping something into his pocket.

Brendon felt around. Was this an invitation to a late night rendezvous? 

No. In Spencer Smith's scrawling letters sat:

_My place. Let's play video games and eat pizza._

Why was this secretive?

He avoided their manager's glaring gaze.

Oh, right.

Brendon rounded the corner in Spencer and Ryan's wake, watching as they leaned into each other, laughing. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets. 

This was when a girl flew past them, bumping into Brendon on the hooded sidewalk. 

"Hey-"

Her brown hair tumbled over her shoulders as he reached to steady her, her wild eyes trying to fix on anything except him. He recognized that look, the way her oversized sweatshirt refused to cling to her body, the way that one of her breasts were slightly lumped with an unknown package stowed inside. 

"Wait." 

Ryan and Spencer had turned around, watching as Brendon clung to her shoulders. She moved to move away. 

"Have you met your qu-"

She shook her head, confused that he understood.

"Fuck, I remember that. How much do you have lef-"

"I need one hundred doll-" 

He thrust the twenties at her, a frivolous attempt to ease his younger self's worries. 

"Give it." 

She gave him a smile before removing the packet.

"Thank god. Thank god. Oh god, thank you. Okay, I gotta go. I gotta go."   
He nodded, trying to offer her a reassuring smile as she turned to sprint.

"What was that about?" Spencer asked, an incredulous look on his face.

"Got weed. Don't worry about i-" 

Spencer snorted, turning to put his key in the lock of his Grandmother's house. Ryan cast a dark gaze down the street, at the looming corner. It was nearing one in the morning, but the old woman was up, waiting for them per Spencer's earlier promise.

"There's my boys!" 

This caused Brendon to nearly choke, as every band practice was the same.

"There's my two boys! Hello Brendon, Hello, Brent." A hug for Ryan, A smile and wave for Brendon, a nod for Brent.

But he was one of her boys now, too.

"There's cookies in the fridge. I'm going to head on to bed, don't stay up too late! Big day tomorrow!" 

She tottered off, humming to herself.

Spencer gave them a slightly embarrassed smile.

"I think she's wonderful," Brendon said, cutting him off before he could say anything.

Spencer nodded, bashfully.

"Now. What are we going to play?" Ryan asked, collapsing on the couch like it was his own.

Spencer shrugged. Brendon toyed with the package in his pocket, the corner a comforting similarity.

"Oh, come on!" Ryan said, shooting Brendon a smile as he put his feet up. "We're about to be on tour for months! Let's live a little." 

Spencer rolled his eyes. Since when did Ryan Ross  _live._

"Do you know what we should do? We should find a bassist."

An eyeroll from Brendon.

"Pete's got it. I assure you. Let's call him."

"Let's not bother him this la-"

Spencer was cut off by a sharp ring.

"Brendon Urie, you dumbass!"

"Sorry, Pete."

"What's up?"

"Have you, uh, found a bassist?"

A snort.

"No. There's a couple guys I've heard of, though. I can send you their numbers."

"Yeah, definetly-"

Ryan mumbled something along the lines of "fuck video games,  I guess."

"Okay. Bye." 

"Bye, kid."

Spencer raised an eyebrow.

"That was quick."

There was a nod as he fumbled with his phone. 

"Lemme text some people, we can find one by-"

"Isn't this what a manager is for?"

"Get the cookies, I'm hungry."

 _[Hi, I'm Brendon]._ He keyed out. [ _I heard you play bass?]_

There was a reply instantly, strange for one am.

_[Yeah, I do. What's it to you?]_

_**[B:** I'm in a band, we're about to go on tour. What's your name?]_

There were two minutes of silence, a scoff from Ryan. Then, a response.

_[Jon Walker.]_


	18. Nightmares And New Bussess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter's late, the end of Semester's coming up and it's insane...
> 
> Hope you're enjoying!

He woke up in a cold sweat, twitching on the carpet.

 Spencer was passed out next to him, and Brendon was asleep on the couch, one of his feet dangling off the side.

And Ryan's brain was plagued with the stench of alcohol and his father. His upper arm was aching, and his nightmare was fresh in his brain.

Sometimes he could feel it, how much it hurt. 

He decided to get up and get a glass of water. 

He threw the blanket, which had been mostly kicked off anyways, in the direction of the couch. It hit Brendon's foot, causing him to stir. 

He left Brendon and Spencer behind, their sleeping forms cast in shadow as he flipped the kitchen light switch.

Which cabinet were the glasses in? He should know this.

He pulled a mug out, running it under the faucet as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. He looked up, eyes meeting the person in front of him.

Spencer's Gran.

"Ryan, what are you doing up?" 

He sent an apologetic smile in her direction.

"Just a little thirsty."

She shuffled towards him, placing a palm on his forehead.

"You're a bit feverish. Are you feeling alright?"

Her concern practically radiated off of her, and she wiped a bead of sweat from his skin.

"Ye-yeah. I just had a nightmare."

She took the cup from him, dumping the water out and pouring milk in it.

"Let me heat this up for you, I always used to give Spencer warm milk when he had bad dreams." 

Ryan gave her an awkward nod, leaning back against the kitchen table.

"What was your dream about?"

Ryan paused, gnawing on his lip.

"My dad."

She removed the milk from the microwave, handing it to him. 

"Don't burn yourself. Spencer said he wasn't the nicest man."

"He-he did?"

"Yes. It's a shame, you're such a nice boy." 

Ryan nodded, resisting the urge to cry as he sipped the warm mixture from the mug, his slender fingertips running over the decal that proclaimed her the ' _World's Best Grandma'_

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Ryan shrugged. 

"You know, Spencer asked me if we could adopt you once."

Ryan raised his gaze.

"Really?"

"Yes, maybe a week or so after he met you?" She smiled, her aging eyes crinkling with the memory. 

He nodded into his mug.

"He said that your dad didn't like you much, and he couldn't understand why. At least now you'll be out there, and he can't get you."

His words caught in his throat at this.

"Y-yeah."

"Come here, Ryan."

He set the mug down and took a step towards her. She reached her wrinkled arms out, wrapping them around him. He buried his face in her shoulder, stifling a tear.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize, dear. You're only human."

The mug sat steaming behind them as he silently cried in her shoulder, his back shaking occasionally. He thought, once or twice, he could hear movement in the living room, but she kept her arms around him, protecting him until he pulled away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Sorr-Sorry for apolo-shit."

A smile flickered across her face, before she brushed his wrist again.

"Ryan, can you promise me something?"

"Of course. Anything."

"Will you watch out for Spencer, out there?"

She cast a look into the room where Brendon and Spencer slept, before turning back to him.

"It's a big world out there. And people in your industry do bad things, and he's still my little bo-"

"Of course I will."

Ryan gripped her hands in his own. He could hear more shuffling, they were definitely awake now. 

"You prom-"

"Of course. I won't let him get into anything. I swear."

"Rya-"

"Hey." He met her eyes in a single glance, the noises from the living room forcing him to hurry. "No drugs or bad stuff. You guys saved me."

She smiled.

"It's the least I could do."

-!-

-!-

-!-

The bus lurched, causing Brendon to tip into the aisle. Ryan and Spencer both had their faces pressed against the window, watching as his gran waved goodbye. 

"Brendon! Get over here and wave!" 

He scrambled over, pushing into Ryan as he wormed himself into the space between Ryan's body and the seat, causing Spencer to laugh. They pulled away from the corner, Zach yelling at them from somewhere up front, and Ryan pulled Brendon into his lap, winding his arms around his waist, ignoring Spencer as he kicked the back of their chair. 

"What're we doing about the bassist?"

"I guess we're stopping to watch that one dude play." 

Spencer tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling, giving Ryan an extra nanosecond to grip Brendon by the hips and laugh into his shoulder. 

"Jesus, the tiredness just hit me." 

Spencer flopped sideways over the seats, hiding from view. Brendon slipped down and gave Ryan a peck on the neck before slipping onto the floor, dramatically flopping on his back. 

"Get up, you angsty bitch."

"But I'm  _bored."_

"Brendon, it's been  _five minutes!"_

Spencer let out an exaggerated eyeroll, taking off his shoe and throwing it at Brendon's head. It bounced off and Brendon screeched, slinking back to where Ryan was sitting.

"That's right! Run back to Ryan, you little gremlin!" 

This was so easy, so simple for them. Three boys, goofing off, Brendon retreating to Ryan's lap, Spencer in hysterics. 

If only it could always be like this, the smell of gasoline and freshly vacuumed seats penetrating them, Zach driving. 

He could almost feel the whiskey-stench leaving his pores, spilling out like blood behind the bus as he left his father behind.

-!-

-!-

"Ryan? You alright?"

Brendon was nuzzled up against him, Spencer oblivious. 

"Yeah, Bren." 

"You sure?"

He pulled Ryan's hand to him, pressing a light kiss on the back of his wrist. Ryan brushed his fingertips across Brendon's lips, exploring their territory, before trailing them down to loop his pointer fingers in his belt loops, binding him to the seat. 

Spencer's head was pressed against the cool window, eyes closed. Brendon kept his eyes locked on Ryan's palm, still looped in the top of his pants. 

"He asleep?" Brendon asked, slightly breathless.

"No." Spencer answered, still oblivious to the scene in front of him, eyes still closed. 

Ryan peeked at Spencer in the reflection on the glass, and, after confirming that his eyes were closed, he bowed down to kiss Brendon on the lips.

He waited, lips pressed on Brendon's, until Spencer's breathing slowed, confirming he was indeed asleep now. He welcomed this information by pulling Brendon's bottom lip out a little and pulling him by the belt on his lap, allowing Brendon to bury his head in his shoulder, pressing easy kisses up his neck and cheekbone.

"Dork." Ryan whispered in his ear, the words coming out hot and heavy, causing Brendon's hips to roll over Ryan's lap. 

The bus came to a stop outside a rest area, and, at the noise of Zach's seatbelt unbuckling up front, Brendon pushed himself off of Ryan, blushing.

"You kids alright back here?"

"Spencer's passed out." Ryan said, unabashedly. "And Mr. ADHD is driving me insane."

"Normal, then? I'm getting a Redbull, want anything?"

Brendon cast a quick look at Ryan.

"No."

He let out a soft smile.

"I believe I don't want anything else at all."


	19. Parking Lot Personas (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THERE IS A BRIEF MENTION ABOUT SELF HARM, IN PASSING 
> 
> This is part one of a two part chapter <3
> 
> Part two will be posted tomorrow at around 10 CDT
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!
> 
> YOU CAN SIGN UP TO BE AN ADVANCE READER BY MESSAGING ME ON TUMBLR!  
>  
> 
> Socials:  
> Wattpad - @ladypseudonym  
> Twitter - @ladypsueds  
> Tumblr - @ladypseudonym

"Okay, you're in."

Brendon tried to be as nonchalant as possible, pretending he was much cooler and much more in charge that he was in actuality.

"Sweet."

The boy, however, had no facade as he slung the bass over his shoulder, shooting them a smile.

He was good enough. From Chicago, so naturally, Pete would like him.

Spencer seemed to like him, and that was enough for Ryan.

He wasn't Mormon, so that was enough for Brendon.

So he was just enough.

-!-

-!-

-!-

They decided to celebrate the fact that Jonathan Walker had joined them by getting absolutely shitfaced.

Except for Ryan.

Ryan didn't drink.

This was something Spencer Smith knew.

This was something that Jon Walker didn't.

Now, see, it's quite easy to let your guard down when you're desperate.

And that, they were.

Jon was totally inebriated, and Spencer was too, presumably, considering he was hysterical with laughter.

Spencer didn't laugh when he was drunk.

This was strange.

And, at this part of the night, Brendon Urie was too.

And we all know what that means.

His fingers were laced in Ryan's hair, tipped over his lap, giggling to himself. There was a movie in the DVD player, which Jon was trying to watch, along with Spencer, but due to the drinks in their system, they were failing.

In all honesty, all Brendon needed was a little push away to retire to the couch and sleep it off.

But instead, Ryan pulled him farther into his lap, catching Spencer's sideways glance.

 _It'll be fine,_ Ryan thought.  _He'll just think we're drunk._

Spencer, though mostly wasted, had managed to notice the way Ryan wrapped his hands around Brendon's hipbones, burying his head in his shoulder, leaving an almost-kiss on the fabric.

The memory seared itself into his brain with the impending hangover, causing him to wait for Ryan after Jon passed out and Brendon retired to the back of the bus. 

"Ryan?"

He stumbled a little as he stepped towards him, steadying himself on the countertop.

"Yeah, Spence?"

Ryan ran his fingers through his grease-tinged hair, the tour bus sweat finally getting to him. 

"Uh, you alright?"

"Yeah, why? Just... tired."

He took a step towards the back of the bus, turning, guilt at letting his guard down ebbing up his arms and shivering down his spine. 

"All that liquor getting to you?"

Ryan froze, his hand stopping as he pulled the curtain to their bunks back, ice shooting down his limbs. The fabric, attached to the roof in a mechanism such as a showercurtain, was the only thing separating the two boys from their bandmates.

Jon was passed out.

Brendon was not. 

Ryan let out a nervous laugh.

"What?"

"I said-" 

Spencer tipped forward, supporting himself on the countertop even more, his eyes trained on Ryan's back.

So he wasn't as drunk as Ryan thought.

"Is all that liquor getting to you, Ryan?"

He kept his eyes steady on the back of the bus. Behind his curtain, Brendon's light was on.

Brendon was only tipsy, barely so at that, indulging in the previous belief that he was drunk enough to love Ryan, gaining safety from the idea of being under the influence. His love, went he meant it, was always sober.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, Spencer Smith." Ryan's voice was trained, even, controlled, steady.

"I'm not sure what you mean by  _that_ , George Ryan Ross the Third." 

At this, Ryan was forced to turn and face Spencer, following his outstretched arm, his eyes meeting the tip of Spencer's finger, pointing directly at Brendon's bunk.

"Are you sending me to bed?"

"Are you playing dumb?"

Ryan's hands were starting to tremble, and he was internally begging them to stop wavering.

Do not show weakness.

 _You_  are not weak.

"What would I be-be playing dumb about, Spencer?"

"I think you know."

"I'm afraid." Ryan turned fully, his eyes meeting Spencer's. His outer shell melted away, his pupils' doors to his soul, young Ryan pushing out and taking control, his arms still held, raised above his face, protecting his flesh from a strike or bottle. He was the Ryan who still had to hold his ground, to lie to preserve his dignity, to protect himself.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Spencer bit his lip and nodded. He leaned forward a little, his voice coming out as a soft hiss.

"Remember, I took you out the window. I was the one who helped you through the curtain."

His eyes darkened as he turned to push past Ryan.

"So don't look at me like I'm him."

He left Ryan, standing alone in the lounge, as Spencer crawled into bed, his eyes watering. He could hear the sound of a bunk creaking as Brendon moved, leaving to go to the room that Spencer had just exited. 

The light of Brendon's bunk lamp was extinguished, but there was no boy next to it to fall asleep in the darkness.

He saw Ryan, facing the front of the bus, and he bit down on his tongue, pretending he didn't hear Spencer and Ryan's conversation. Pretending he didn't hear Ryan say-

"Nothing's going on?" Brendon asked.

 Ryan's eyes were fixated on the door, his tears sliding down his cheeks, burning like vodka down a throat.

Ryan nodded.

Existence was a religion, and lying was the only prayer he knew. 

If there was one thing he learned, the more blood you take from the lip as you bite down the more tears are quenched, the more lies are allowed to slip through your skin. 

"Nothing."

He agreed.

Brendon was near tears now, too.

"Meaningless?'

Ryan nodded, his voice cracking as he forced the word out, his trembling response.

"Yes."

_Lies._

He watched Brendon's eyes widen slightly. He tipped the salt into the wound, he rubbed the lemon juice on the cut to get it to fade.

"Meaningless, Bren."

Brendon said it before Ryan could get to it.

"In that case, I need a walk."

He was the second person to leave Ryan Ross in the lounge that night as the bus doors opened, and Brendon Urie allowed the night to consume him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of a two part chapter <3
> 
> Part two will be posted tomorrow at around 10 CDT
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!
> 
>  
> 
> Socials:  
> Wattpad - @ladypseudonym  
> Twitter - @ladypsueds  
> Tumblr - @ladypseudonym


	20. Parking Lot Personas [Part Two]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE IS MENTIONED AND DESCRIBED  
> THERE WILL BE A RECAP AT THE BOTTOM

Brendon Urie allowed the tears to stream down his face freely as he buried his head in his knees, hunched over on the park bench, folding himself up in a pitiful motion.

He was a virus, an unlovable bacteria, a fever to everyone around them, forcing their bodies to go into defense mode, sweating and sleeping and growing red in the face.

He didn't know they were parked near here.

It was a playground at night, artistically silent, beautiful in a way that perfectly encapsulated the cold, unforgivingness of the circumstance, the cold plastic a window to the child that everyone in its vicinity never got to be.

There was a parking lot near the playground.

There were two occupants in total.

One, Brendon Boyd Urie, his tears dripping onto his fingertips, and the other in the lot, her finger on the radio dial.

Aliyah Weston was sitting in her car, her pills in her hand, when she saw him.

She wasn't planning on getting out of her seat, but she wasn't planning on stealing her step-mother's car, and she certainly wasn't planning on killing herself.

But sometimes, things just happen.

Nevertheless, she opened the door, walking over to the boy on the bench.

What was one more moment, one last good deed before she was sent to the afterlife?  


"Hey."

He sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, swiping his slight fringe out of his eyes. Brendon Urie's doe eyes, the ones that charmed Ryan Ross, looked up at her, his pupils allowing the stars to slink in, consuming his body and soul and bones and inner fragility that only comes from a young Mormon boy who finds solitary in weed and liquor and music.

"Hi."

She sat next to him, not waiting for an invitation. He probably wasn't able to make a coherent sentence, as he was too busy trying to hide the fact that he was crying.

But if she knew one thing, people came to parks at three am for three reasons;

Sex

To Cry

And To Die

And as far as she knew, the two of them weren't planning to fuck, and he was clearly crying, and that only left one spot for her.

"I'm Aliyah."

There was a pause.

"I'm Brendon."

"Just Brendon?"

"Urie."

She tilted her head back, her neck fitting in the back of the bench, her hair tumbling over it, her eyes taking in the stars.

"What do you do, Mr. Urie?"

"That's my father."

"Brendon."

"I'm in a band."

"Yeah?"

She spread her legs slightly, the wind catching on the hem of her skirt. It was light blue silk, dancing on her scratched skin, swirling along her ankles. Brendon was mesmerized. 

"I've always wanted to be in a band. What's it called?"

He paused again, the stars reflecting in the ghost of his tears.

"Panic."

"Just Panic?"

"Panic! At The Disco."

"That's a cool name. Like The Smiths song?"

He took a shaky breath.

"Yeah."

He watched the way her casual confidence mixed with her aura of something, something inexplicable, something unexplained.

"What are you doing here?"

She turned, her eyes meeting his for the first time.

"Leaving."

"Leaving?"

"I've gotten myself into quite a hole, Brendon Urie." She stood up, dusting off the lap of her dress, the silk mingling with the brisk air, swirling around her in glitter and fairy dust and something impending- was it fragility? Was it fate?"

.   
"What kind of hole?"

"Not a nice one. Not like a black hole, sucking up everything around it, because I'm afraid there's nothing less to suck. So, I'm leaving."

He paused, pretending the idea didn't make as much sense to him as it did.

"Do you need help?"

This idea was going to bite him in the ass, but there was something about her. Something about the way she stood, interacted, spoke.

It resembled the end of all things, almost.

She was frankly, almost like a god. Was she his guardian angel? He wasn't very good at advice, and he figured his guardian angel would tell him to get his head out of his ass and go fuck Ryan, or maybe to pray. 

"Help?" She asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Leaving. I have a bus. You can- you can come with us to the next place. To-"

He shuffled through his pockets, looking for the list of tour spots, venues to drink in his hospitality for the show.

"No thank you, Brendon."

She turned, looking back at the stolen car.

"Can you do me a favor, though?"

Brendon nodded, and she let out a shaky breath, the first signal of something inside her sputtering, faulty, breaking.

A machine that was nearing its end.

"Su-sure."

"In twenty-four minutes you'll hear sirens. The second you hear them in the distance, I'd like you to leave abruptly. And then, once you're at the next place, look up my name?"

She smiled at him.

"Then you'll- you'll understand."

He raised his eyebrow, waiting before he nodded.

"Thank you, Brendon Urie."

She patted his arm before retreating to her car, her silk dress moving in the wind, her Star Of David glistening in the moonlight. The moonlight on silver was relaxed, lonely, with a sense of finality.

His last thought, a stupid one, was

' _huh, she's Jewish.'_

He hadn't interacted with many Jews, they kind of tended to stay away from the Mormon's with pamphlets in their pockets.

The door closed, and she snapped her seatbelt into place, removing the bottle of pills from the glove compartment. 

_Zoloft._

She unscrewed the cap, her eyes fixed on Brendon's back as he gazed at the stars, rubbing his own leg in an almost consoling manner.

A peculiar child.

She turned on the radio.

Maybe they'd play a nice song for her to go out to. Some nice classical. She cast a gaze at the station as she tipped the rim of the bottle to her lips, the gloss transferring onto the orange tinted plastic.

It was begging to be consumed.

Fuck, it was the pop station. She'd have to change it.

She opened the sunroof in an afterthought, considering she'd want to go out looking at the stars.

She wasn't a religious person, but she thought she'd give it a shot.

_Please, God, Adonai, Ruler of the Universe._

_If this is wrong, give me a sign._

There was no clap of thunder, no sudden downpour.

She figured that it was the go-ahead.

What was she about to do?

Oh, yes.

Classical.

She reached for the scan button when the announcer came on the airwave, proclaiming something right as she turned to tip her head back and get drunk on the tiny green pills.

"Before you change the station-"

Huh, that was weird. Coincidence.

"Here's a new one, I Write Sins Not Tragedies, from the upcoming band Panic! At The Disco."

This shocked her so much that she almost downed the pills on accident.

The song kicked off with cellos.

A little classical. A little bit of the boy outside.

She liked the cello, maybe she'd take it up.

Maybe

She'd

Take

It

Up.

And the poor groomsbride is a-

She threw the door open, calling out his name, dropping the pills to the parking-lot concrete, the little capsules, the little vessels to beyond mingling and mixing with the leftover rainwater piled against the curb, whisking them into the grate. 

It was about to rain, wasn't it?

"Brendon!"

He whipped around, staring at her, her chest heaving, her hair whipping around her face, her sudden need for refuge adamant.

"Yeah?"

"The bus."

She let out a shaky breath.

"Where's it parked?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brendon meets a girl at the park he is crying at and she consoles him. He is unaware, but she is about to kill herself. She goes back to her car, but as she is about to down her pills, I Write Sins Not Tragedies comes on, and she takes it as a sign. He offers to drop her off at their next location for a show, and she takes him up on it.
> 
>  
> 
> Notice:  
> Here's a link you can go to to find the suicide hotline in your country:  
> http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html


	22. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry for the wait

Ryan's head was still in his hands when the bus door opened. 

It was quiet, barely, seeping in the noise of stifled laughter and ground-down misery.  

He stood, his hand trailing on the curtain, skimming the fabric.

He froze.

Brendon was bringing a girl onto the bus. 

He listened, intently, the lack of light masking him by the velveteen curtain. 

He offered her a coke.

Ryan's heart was beating in his chest, the feeling reverberating against his sternum. 

The minifridge opened, casting a soft fluorescent light around them.

Ryan could see Brendon, kneeling, peering into the shelves for her drink of choice. The yellow-white light wove in his eyelashes, reflecting on his skin, tearing through the eyes that had dried. 

She stood not far behind him, the hem of her dress muddy.

She was not a scene girl. 

She had barely any makeup on, this was true, and she wore pastel silk that folded over her ankles.

She didn't seem like Brendon's type.

But then again, what did Ryan know about Brendon's type?

"You want ice?"

"I'm good."

 _This is not your place, Ryan._ He thought.  _Go to your bunk, you do not want to see this._

He watched, entranced, as Brendon pulled out the can, handing it to her. He placed a hand on her back, guiding her to the couch ever-so-slowly, his hand reassuring and strong, taking care of her.

Jealousy burned in Ryan's stomach.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.

"Brendon."

Brendon turned with a sharp intake of breath, meeting Ryan's eyes. His hand did not leave the girl's dress.

The girl's hands were shaking.

"Aliyah," Brendon said, his voice collected. "Have a seat."

"Brendon, who is thi-" Ryan started, ready to fight.

"I can't do this now."

"Brendon, you need to ask before you bring someone on our bus."

The girl closed her eyes, serene, taking a shaky breath.

"Ryan, I-"

"What?" 

It came out sharp.

"I don't have to listen to anything you say."

Brendon pushed past him, pushing the curtain aside and going to gather his blankets. He returned, dumping them on the couch, his eyes carefully trained on Ryan, waiting to see what he would do.

He kept watching him as he beckoned her to the couch.

"I'll sit with you until you fall asleep, Aliyah."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. 

"I need to speak with you, Brendon."

Their politeness was venom, a poison killing them from the inside, a bomb waiting to detonate.

"Do it in the morning."

"I'll do it now."

He took a step towards him, making dead eye contact.

"I need a word." 

Brendon's ears were flushed, his hands trembling slightly.

"I'll be okay here, Brendon," Aliyah said, her voice soft and reassuring, in tune with a melody they could not hear.

"Two minutes."

Brendon pushed past Ryan, opening the bus door with a little too much force, causing Spencer to stir in his bunk.

He rolled over and fell asleep as his two bandmates stood outside the bus, one with his arms crossed, one begging for something in his body to take control.

"What, Ryan? What the everloving fuck do you want?"

His voice came out as more of a growl than he intended.

"Who is she?"

"A friend!"

"Bullshit!"

"Why does it matter?"

There was a pause. 

"Are you jealous? Are you fucking jealous of me? You won't let me want you but you won't let me want anyone else? What the fuck is this?" 

His voice rose in pitch as he ranted, anxiety and anger filtering in, making a dangerous cocktail.

"Why is she here, Brendon?"

Three.

Two.

One.

Boom.

"Because she tried to fucking kill herself!" 

His voice raised, stunning Ryan into silence.

He softened as Brendon turned, avoiding his gaze.

"What?"

"She tried to-"

Brendon leaned against the bus for support, trying not to make eye contact.

"She was at the park I walked to. And I was sitting there, and I was crying, and she came out and talked to me. And I offered for her to hang out tonight,  and she said no and went back to her car, and five minutes later she came out sobbing and dumped all her pills in the parking lot and said she would come with us after all."

"So you brought her here." 

"Yes." 

Ryan leaned forward and pulled Brendon into a hug, burying his head in his shoulder. 

It took Brendon a moment before he relaxed, and then he took it, wrapping his hands around Ryan as well.

"Brendon."

His voice, murmuring, was hot on Brendon's t-shirt, weaving in the fabric, his lips making contact with the only barrier from bare skin.

"I want you to want me- I just, I just don't know how."

"You don't know how?"

"I'm trying. I swear."

Brendon pushed him away at arm's length, starting to cry again.

"Just don't call me meaningless, Ry. I'm sick of people saying I'm mea-"

Ryan pushed forward and kissed him, stopping his words with his mouth, his hands shifting towards Brendon's hair. He threaded his hands in his hair, and once Brendon recovered from the shock, he kissed back, and they kissed and kissed and kissed until Brendon was against the side of the bus and Ryan was holding him there, kissing up and down his neck before he pulled away, his pupil's blown and breathing heavily, and then he kissed him once more before glancing towards the bus.

"You did the right thing, Brendon."

And Brendon, his eyes fixated on Ryan's lips, uttered the two words, heavy and assured.

"I know."

 


	23. Hotel Rooms and Flip Phone Fallacies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW
> 
> HIT ME UP ON TUMBLR @LADYPSEUDONYM
> 
> •you can become an advance reader by contacting me on tumblr! I need more•
> 
> This one goes out to @never-left-2007 on tumblr

 

"Bye."

Brendon wrapped his arms around her, rocking back and forth as she leaned her head into his shoulder.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Bren. I'll be fine."

Ryan stood, leaning against the bus, his toothpick in his mouth, gnawing on the edge nervously. He watched their goodbye, Spencer and Zach and Jon by his side, his head tilted slightly against the cool window, the corner of his scarf tickling his chin.

"You can come with u-"

"Bren. I'll be fine."

They broke away, both Brendon and Aliyah's eyes watering, and she sent a half nod to Ryan. He nodded back, sticking his hands in his pockets, and Spencer nudged him before sending a slight wave and leaning into Jon.

"You comin' to our show tonight?"

"I'll try. But I gotta figure this-" she gestured around aimlessly "out first."

"Okay. Here."

Brendon pulled his crew pass out of his pocket and handed it to her, the laminated plastic a boarding pass in her hand, her ticket to salvation.

She shot him a smile, soft, reassuring, a fresh mint smile, a warm honeysuckle glance.

"Do you have a plan?"

She turned, her eyes misty, her dress softly blowing in to the wind.

"I never do."

Spencer was growing restless, and Zach was starting to glance at his phone, a standard "hurry up" signal.

At this, Aliyah stepped towards Ryan, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"Keep him."

She pecked him on the cheek, touched Brendon on the shoulder and turned to walk down the road.

All good things must come to an end.

She did not look back.

Somehow, they all knew she wasn't coming to the show that night.

-!-

-!-

-!-

"Hold still, goddamnit!"

"Im try-"

"Brendon! Hold fucking still!"

Ryan's face was inches away, carefully applying the makeup, the cool face paint on the brushes pouring on his cheeks.

He leaned in, much to Ryan's displeasure, and kissed him, slow and deep, their lips soft on one another and Brendon's hands roaming.

"Fuck offfff-"

Ryan tried to breathe into Brendon's mouth that he had to sit back down, get ready, but alas, he was too hungry, and so he bent Brendon back over the chair, his hands trickling into Brendon's pants, his calloused fingertips toying with the waistband of Brendon's boxers.

"Do it, Ry, please."

"I gotta finish your makeup, baby."

_"Ryan."_

It came out whimpery and needy, causing Ryan to catch his breath.

"Hurry."

Ryan dipped his brush in the paint again, finishing Brendon's doll-like makeup. He tried his best to do it one-handed, his other hand tracing underneath Brendon's underwear, watching as he twitched and trembled, giving in to Ryan's touch.

He dropped the brush with a finality, finally switching his attention to only Brendon's body.

There was a knock on the door as Brendon gasped into Ryan's mouth.

"Stage call in five! I repeat, stage call in five!"

"Fuck."

Ryan shifted his hands faster, knowing he had to finish him off. He couldn't let him go on hard, and besides, what happened when that blonde dancer gave him a lap dance on stage?

Granted, it was fake, but still.

Ryan pushed him to standing position, shifting so that he sat in Brendon's chair, bringing him down on his lap so that Ryan could lean his head over Brendon's shoulder as he worked.

"Stage call in two! Where the fuck is the singer and the guitarist?"

Brendon released with a shaky gasp into Ryan's hand, and Ryan pulled a scratchy tissue out from the box on the vanity counter and wiped his palm, passing one to Brendon so that he could clean himself. He turned, making eye contact before he licked some of the remaining residue off his fingers, causing a sharp intake of breath from Brendon.

Ryan stood, straightened his vest, kissed Brendon on the forehead, and opened the door.

"You coming, you little star?"

-!-

-!-

-!-

What the fuck is he doing?

Spencer shot him a glance as Brendon fell to his knees, tearing at his hair as he leaned into the vibrations from Ryan's guitar, the crowd going wild.

He pushed himself to his feet, continuing the narrative he constructed, sunflowers and maidens and marriage.

"Leaning in for a-"

He was nearing Ryan, dangerously close. His fingers skimmed his skin.

What was happening?

" _Perfect._ "

" _Passionate_."

" _Kiss._ "

He asked Ryan a silent question with his eyes, the stage lights boring into their backs.

Ryan nodded.

He closed in with a kiss, but Ryan pulled away almost instantly.

Spencer rolled his eyes.

The crowd screamed.

Brendon turned around, shooting Ryan a wink.

"But this is not that dream! This is _hard_."

Spencer hit a beat.

" _Angry_."

Another beat.

" _Sweaty_."

Another.

" _Crazy._ "

Brendon turned to look at Ryan their eyes meeting, as Spencer hit the last beat. Ryan's eyes were trained on Brendon's lips as he said it, sweat from the lights tricking down his cheeks.

"Fucking."

Ryan took a deep breath and launched into Lying.

He kept his eyes on Brendon's back.

-!-

-!-

-!-

Ryan's head banged into the hotel room wall, his fingers laced in Brendon's hair.

He took a shaky breath, his grip tight.

Brendon looked up from his position on the floor through his eyelashes, his cheeks flushed, his hair still wet from his post-show shower.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Brendon took him down easily, scarily easily, barely choking. He pulled his head back again, tongue skimming over his base.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Brendon.”

This wasn’t Ryan’s first blowjob. He’d had them before, all girls. Jac had given them before.

But it wasn’t like this.

He didn’t get to see beautiful doe-eyes staring up at him as he was tended to, he didn’t get to see one of his best friends on his knees. He didn’t get to here the short little breaths he made, and he didn’t get to watch him grow harder.

Did this boy even have a gag reflex?

Brendon’s phone rang in the corner, vibrating persistently.

Ryan shut his eyes and leaned back, guiding Brendon’s head, the sinful sound of Brendon’s name playing on his lips, leaking from him, trickling down his spine.

He turned slightly, opening his eyes to see the ID on Brendon’s phone, trying to see the words and not focus on his curled toes and strangled noises and over stimulation.

“Fuck.”

It could’ve been a moan, but it was too blunt for that.

Ryan stopped Brendon’s head halfway.

“Bren, it’s your _mom_.”

He pulled off with a dirty-sounding pop, spit and other substance pulling away from his lips as he looked up at Ryan disbelievingly.

“I swear to god. It’s your mom, Bren, I swear.”

“I don’t know what to-“

“Answer.”

Ryan took the liberty of wiping his own pre-come off of Brendon’s lips as he handed him the phone, staring at him.

“Shit.”

He opened the phone as Ryan pulled his boxers up, leaving his jeans on the ground.

Brendon hovered over ‘ _accept_ ’.

“Do it.”

Brendon closed his eyes and pressed talk.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Brendon.”

“Mom.”

Ryan grabbed his hand, trying to steady his shaking fingers.

“Brendon, I heard your song on the radio the other day.”

“Yes, so did I.”

“Are you doing well?”

“Guess.”

“Brendon, your father and I didn’t mean to leave things off the way they ended up.”

“Good to know.”

“You can still find God, and we know that.”

Brendon rolled his eyes, digging his fingernails into Ryan’s palm.

“Jesus still wants you, Brendon, and I know tha-“

Brendon turned, forcing his lips into Ryan’s as she talked, and after a moment of surprise, Ryan obliged.

“I know you didn’t mean to sin. I’m sure we can set you up with a pastor who can-“

He could feel Ryan’s erection against the front of his thigh, and he rocked on it slightly.

God, he was going to hell for this.

“There are Mormons everywhere, Brendon, I’m sure they’d love to help you if you’d just try to confo-“

Ryan trailed his tongue down Brendon’s neck, giving him a devilish smile as he groaned into it, covering the mic with one hand.

His teeth grazed a soft spot.

“Jesus hasn’t given up on you, Brendon, and I know that. He knows all, and He-“

Ryan pulled back on the hickey he had left, pressing a kiss to the mark.

“Brendon?”

“I have soundcheck.”

“Brendon, you need to-“

”Goodbye.”

He ended the call, turning to straddle Ryan.

“Bren?”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

He nodded, and Brendon pulled down his boxers again.

The phone lay closed on the floor of the hotel room.


	24. Shambles

**_Trigger warning: the following chapter contains drug use and possibly triggering mentions of suicide_ **

The ceiling had never looked so enticing.

Ryan Ross lay on the hotel bed, 2 am, not sleeping.

What was going on?

This was, what one could call, a problem.

He was not gay.

This was something he knew, deep in his bones. He was not gay because he was not in love with Brendon Urie, and he would never be in love with Brendon Urie. Fuck buddies.

That's all they were.

Yes, Brendon was his "baby", but he was all of their babies, wasn't he? He was young, he was fragile, he had no family.

But then again, Ryan had no family, and he wasn't any of their rosy-cheeked child.

He turned to look at Brendon, his lips still pink, his body wrapped in bright white sheets.

He looked away.

He was sleeping contently, did that mean he was happy? Did that mean he was okay?   
Because Ryan just got a blowjob from another man, and that did not seem like a particularly heterosexual thing to do.

He was not gay.

But still, the backstage memory came back to him, the mumbling of  _baby_ and  _darling_ and the feeling of his chin tucked into Brendon's shoulder as he roamed his fingers over his cock.

He was not gay.

He closed his eyes, but that didn't stop him from seeing. Seeing how simple everything was.

He pulled back the comforter, careful not to disturb Brendon's sleep.

The carpet was rough on his feet.

There was alcohol on the dresser, complimentary. A bottle of wine, a bottle of vodka, and a bottle of whiskey. He walked up to it, retrieving the small envelope from behind the bottles.

Brendon wasn't the only one who left the bus that night.

He could feel the powder jostling in the envelope, loose, packed unprofessionally.

Brendon was shrouded in darkness, his shirt gone, hickeys down his chest.

Which one was his dirty little secret?

The boy in bed, or the cocaine in his hand?

He crossed the room, knocking the whiskey bottle over in the process. He caught it, seconds before it hit the floor, spilling the dark liquid all over his hands, contaminating his Brendon-smelling skin with the stench of alcohol.

The 

Stench

Of 

Whiskey

Was 

Over

Whelming. 

He righted the bottle, taking a cautious lick off one of his fingers which now tasted like his late father and the burn marks on his bedroom door. 

He could see Brendon in the mirror, his chest heaving and falling peacefully, his body moving slightly as if he was trying to find Ryan. 

He kept his eyes trained on him as he downed the bottle.

He was drowning.

It filled his lungs, made him want to retch, cough, sputter.

It made him feel like he downed a bottle of bleach, and if he decided to lie down on the floor, he'd just  _die._

He slipped out of the hotel room door.

They were on the top floor, the eighth, and there was a roof access staircase. 

It was unlocked. 

The whiskey was in one of his hands, the envelope tucked against it. 

The bottle was half-gone already.

George Ryan Ross III, the son of his father, headed up the stairs.

He was on his deathbed.

With every exhale a little bit of hope vanished, and with every inhale the horrible toxins that are the forced normality of life and whiskey penetrate his bones.

To him, his happiness is a joke, something that is fueled only by whiskey and the drugs he can now afford. 

He walked to the edge, staring down at the eight floors beneath him.

It occurred to him, then, that he didn't know how to do this. He had, what, a gram? You were supposed to cut it into lines, weren't you?

He used the ripped open envelope to do so, the line jagged, but a line nonetheless.

You were supposed to close one nostril, weren't you? 

The cars, rushing below, were like stars. 

If only there was a window to protect him from the ledge the powder was lined on, the drop, the suicide wish.

Sometimes you want to go out the window, but sometimes you want to stay in.

_There was a tap, once, twice on Ryan's window. His tear-stained face looked up, staring through, meeting nine-year-old Spencer Smith's widened eyes._

_'Go away,' he mouthed, waving at the window. Spencer, however, placed his palms against the window and opened it._

Now, exactly ten years later, he was begging for a window to trap him in.

At least there was no whiskey bottle on the other side of the door, begging for entrance. 

Then it occurred to him.

The whiskey was already in his hands.

The door opened behind him just as he bowed his head over the line of white.

"Ryan?"

In his haste, he swept his hand over the cocaine, knocking it off the roof.

He watched as his last fragment of hope, security, wishes, escape, fluttered off into the night air.

"Spencer."

Now nineteen, a cigarette in his hand, Spencer sauntered towards Ryan.

"You alright?"

"Go away."

"Now," He smirked slightly. "When was the last time that that worked?"

"What are you smokin?"

"A cigarette. Zach won't let me smoke out front, it's too  _dangerous._ " 

Ryan stepped forward and plucked it out of his hands, throwing it off the roof.

"What the fuck?"

"I told your grandma you wouldn't do that."

At this Spencer looked down, biting his lip self-consciously. 

"What are you doin' up here?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"Thinking."

"Oh, what's new? Thinking of some angsty lyrics for the next album? Composing a burlesque?"

"A what?"

"It was my word of the day, Ryro. I have a calendar." 

"Alrighty, Spency, what's it mean then?"

"Fuck if I know. I know it has something to do with you."

He let out a shielded laugh.

"Pass me a cig."

"Hypocrite."

"I know."

Nonetheless, he did, and Ryan lit it.

He coughed, but not as much as he did, wanted to, yearned to, with the whiskey. 

"My turn."

"What?"

Spencer ripped the bottle out of Ryan's hand, throwing it off the roof.

"Fuck! That's gonna hit someone!"

"Shit! I didn't think about that!"

Spencer rushed to the edge, peered down, and saw nothing.

He didn't see the heaven, the gorgeous portrait that Ryan did.

All he saw was concrete and a road, cold, hard, and unforgiving. 

"Why were you drinking?"

"I wasn't."

"Bullshit."

"So now you think I'm drinking?"

"I saw you!"

"One drink is fine."

"You're gonna just abandon your morals?"

"What morals?"

"Listen, George."

Ryan took a step back.

"Don't call me that. I'm not like him."

Spencer looked him dead in the eye, glancing at the smears on the concrete ledge.

"Then act like it."

Ryan pushed past him, his words echoing in his brain, and headed down the staircase.

-!-

-!-

-!-

The door creaked open, revealing the nineteen-year-old boy with his head in between his knees, sobbing by the lamplight. 

Brendon Urie could only put up his act for so long, and the events of the day had finally gotten to him.

His  _mom_ had  _called him._

And all she wanted to talk about was a meaningless man in the sky and his son. 

Ryan watched as Brendon's finger traced a hickey on his stomach, trying to soothe himself, but miserably failing. 

He slipped inside, unnoticed, and grabbed his backpack.

Brendon was rocking back and forth, choking on his tears, mumbling things that sounded like prayers or proclamations, digging his fingernails into his thighs and leaving marks.

Ryan left their room, and the door closed with a click, stifling Brendon's sobs.  

Ryan supposed he would have to sleep on the bus.

And, as Brendon cried on, Ryan Ross mourned the loss of his cocaine and whiskey to the cruel unforgiving night.

_End of Part Two._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> This was the end of Part Two.  
> Going into Part Three, I would like to provide the best possible for all of you, which is why I would like to open it up to all of you to become advance readers and suggest edits on the chapters! To ask me about it, you can hit me up on my tumblr @ladypsuedonym, or email me at ladypseudonym@gmail.com
> 
> Your comments mean the world to me, thank you for taking the time to read this and write them.  
> I love you all <3
> 
> xx  
> Ladypseudonym


	25. Part Three

My dears, we have now reached part three.

Welcome.

Welcome to cocaine and catalysts, to whiskey and warm tour bus nights.

Good morning.

The sun has risen.

xx ladypsuedonym


	26. Stilettos And Silence

Audrey Kitching stood in the airport terminal, twisting her ring around her finger, her eyes fixated on the screen in front of her.

Fuck.

Her flight was late.

She looked down at her stilettos, silently cursing herself at the decision to wear them. 

Of all the shoes in the  _world_ to wear in the airport, she picked  _stilettos._

If she missed her own goddamn boyfriend's show, she was going to SCREAM. 

Audrey fell into the seat, whipping out her phone, catching the eye of the girl sitting across from her in the same position, her head in her hands, scene queen bracelets falling down her wrists.

Audrey shook off her shoes and curled her feet into the seat.

_A: [srry brndn. flight l8. in msp airprt.]_

_B: [its ok. see u soon. <3}_

The girl across from her tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and opened her phone for the fourth time in the last five minutes.

_J: [ryan u good]_

_J: [flight l8]_

_J: [ryan]_

Jac Vanek, thoroughly fed up, snapped it shut and shoved it in her pocket. 

The two girl's eyes met.

 _"Boys?"_ Audrey mouthed, raising her eyebrows at Jac.

Jac nodded slightly before theatrically rolling her eyes.

Audrey got up from her seat and grabbed her heels and carry on, slipping into the seat next to her.

"Hey."

"Hey." 

"Where you headin?"

"My boyfriend's in a band. I'm going to see them on tour."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Me too."

Audrey raised a painted-on eyebrow.

"What's his name?"

"Ryan. Ryan Ross." 

Audrey's mouth dropped open.

"What? No way! He's in a band with  _my_ boyfriend Bre-"

"Brendon? No way! You're dating my boyfriend's little puppet?"

"Puppet?"

"Yeah, that's what he calls him. Apparently, it's one of their band jokes or something. Funny, isn't it?"

Audrey laughed.

She did not think it was funny. 

"I can tell Brendon to have him text you."

"That would be great."

The speaker went off as she opened her phone. 

_"Adrienne Wilson to Gate 6, I repeat, Adrienne Wilson to Gate 6."_

_A: [hey brndn cn u tll ryn 2 txt his gf]_

There was no response. 

She waited five minutes with a nervous laugh.

"It's fine, I'm sure they're just busy, show day."

"Yeah."

Jac averted her eyes.

"I'm Audrey Kitching, by the way."

"Wait, no way! I follow you on MySpace! I'm Jac. Jac Vanek."

"Holy shit!"

Audrey let out a laugh, sounding surprisingly less fake than the previous one.

"At least now I have somebody to sit with for the next four hours."

Behind painted lips, Jac smiled.

-!-

-!-

-!-

The only one who didn't have to pretend that nothing happened last night was Jon.

Because, frankly, he watched cable TV in a room with Spencer, fell asleep early, and woke up the next morning feeling rather refreshed and enjoying coffee from the Keurig on the counter. 

He presumed he'd gotten to the bus early, but Ryan was already there, his phone on the table by the sofa and pouring himself crappy colored cereal into a plastic bowl.

"Morning!"

Ryan made a noise in his general direction.

Jon laughed.

"What's our set for today?"

"Fuck if I know."

"Mmmph. I'm going back to bed."

Jon, in no attempt to move towards the bunks, threw his legs over the side of the couch.

Ryan's phone buzzed again.

"Fuck, Ry, this girl keeps texting you."

"What? What day is it?"

Jon told him.

"Fuck! Oh no, holy shit, Jac comes today!" 

"What's wrong with that?"

"Ugh."

Jon nodded wisely, opening his mouth to spout some kind of anecdote in Ryan's general direction.

"Women are like chickens."

Ryan turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"And?"

"That's all I got."

Ryan broke into a smile, the first in 24 hours, and threw his spoon at him.

"You're a fuckin idiot!"

"No wait! I got it!"

"Yeah?"

"Nope."

"Jonathon Walker!" 

"That's me!"

"Let's watch a movie." Ryan said, resigned, taking his place on the couch next to Jon.

"It's eight in the morning."

"Did I fucking stutter?" 

Jon rolled his eyes and propped his feet up, grabbing a M&M from the dish on the coffee table. 

"We're watching Back to The Future."

Jon closed his eyes as Ryan leaned forward, focusing on the movie with almost a startling intensity. 

"You good, Ryan?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

He didn't sound good, or even remotely okay.

"I don't know."

"I'm not. But it doesn't matter."

"Of course it do-"

The bus door slid open, and Zach entered. 

"Ryan Ross, there you are! Where the fuck did you-"

Ryan raised a hand, silencing him.

"Don't fucking silence me, kid. I've been looki-"

Brendon stepped in the bus after Zach, wearing a thin white shirt, his undereye circles prominent and his harsh jaw set in a purposefully neutral expression.

"Give him a break, Zach."

"Don't' tell me what to do, Brendon."

"I'll do what I like."

He pushed past Zach a little too forcefully, slamming his hand down next to Ryan's phone, causing Jon to jump.

He continued to the bunk, the sound of the curtain being ripped open prominent. 

Jon turned to Ryan with a confused look.

Ryan had a headache. He closed his eyes.

The three men sat and stood in dead silence, Ryan's phone suddenly vibrating, causing them to jump.

"Jesus, fuck."

He opened it, expecting a displayed message from Jac.

_1: New Message: Brendon Urie_

He furrowed his brow and opened it.

_Sender: Brendon B. Urie_

_Body: don't even think about doing coke ever again_

"Shit."

"What?"

Ryan stood up so fast all the blood rushed to his head, grabbing his phone and pulling the curtain back.

Brendon was in the bathroom, all the way at the back of the bunks.

"Brendon?"

Silence.

"Brendon. Let me the fuck i-"

The door swung open, revealing Brendon bent over the dirty sink, his hands firmly planted on the basin, looking at himself in the mirror.

"Bren."

"Just fuck me already."

"What?"

"Just fuck me." He straightened up, turning to look at Ryan. "That's clearly all you wanted me for, so you can fuck me and leave the band or some shit and then buy drugs to forget about it."

"No." Ryan looked him dead in the eye, using his extra height to his advantage.

"What?"

"I'm not going to fuck you."

Brendon averted his gaze, his eyes glossy and focused on the doorframe.

"Good."

Ryan leaned forward and kissed him, soft and easy until Brendon responded and Ryan could lean into him even more and cup his face in his hand.

"And I'm not going to leave the band."

Brendon nodded, a silent tear streaming down his face.

"Hey."

Brendon finally met his eyes.

" _Hey._ "

Ryan leaned in and kissed him again, nipping at his lower lip.

"Lemme know if she calls again."

Brendon broke away, turning towards the mirror.

"Clean yourself up, Ryan. Audrey gets here soon."

He left Ryan alone in the bathroom and allowed the door to close behind him.

And Ryan, his cheeks flushed, washed the remaining smell of whiskey off his hands.


End file.
